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ALDRICH'S   POEMS. 


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BY 

THOMAS    BAILEY  ALDRICH. 


NEW   YORK: 
CAELETON,    PUBLISHER,    413    BROADWAY. 

LONDON:    8.    LOW,   EON   &   CO. 
•  M  DCCC  LXIII. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1S62,  by 

T.  B.  ALDEICH, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United 
States  for  the  Sonthem  District  of  New  York. 


B.    CBAIOITEAD, 

Printer,  Siereotyper,  and  KloctrotTper, 

CCaitort  J3uirt)ing, 

8t,  83,  ond  85  Ctntre  Srnet,  N.  Y. 


LAVNCELOT   THOMPSON, 

SCULPTOR, 


20415G1 


\ 


CONTENTS 


CLOTH  OF  GOLD. 

CLOTH  OP  GOLD             .... 

13 

THE  CRESCENT  AND  THE  CROSS    . 

14 

THE  sheik's  welcome 

16 

THE  UNFORGIVEN          .... 

17 

DRESSING  THE  BRIDE  .... 

19 

TWO  SONGS  FROM  THE  PERSIAN   . 

20 

TIGER-LILIES 

22 

THE  SULTANA 

24 

IT  WAS  A  KNIGHT  OP  ARAGON       . 

25 

WHEN  THE  SULTAN  GOES  TO  ISPAHAN . 

27 

HASCHEESH          

30 

A  PRELUDE          

32 

A  TURKISH  LEGEND     .... 

.     34 

IL 
SWALLOW-FLIGHTS. 

GHOSTS 37 

THE  FADED  VIOLET 38 


CONTENTS. 

PA6B 

DEAD 40 

THE  LUNCH 41 

BEFORE  THE  RAIN 42 

AFTER  THE  RAIN 43 

WEDDED 44 

THE  BLUEBELLS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND         .            .  45 

THE  MOORLAND 47 

NORA  Mccarty 48 

NAMELESS  PAIN 60 

THE  GIRLS 51 

MURDER  DONE 52 

MIRACLES 54 

MAY  .           . 55 

PALABRAS  CARISOSAS 56 

LITTLE  MAUD 58 

SONGS 60 

HESPERIDES 63 

THE  POET 65 

THE  ROBIN 66 


III. 
BALLAD  OF  BABIE  BELL  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

THE  BALLAD  OF  BABIE  BELL           .           .           .69 
PISOATAQUA  RIVER 75 


CONTENTS 

IX 

PAGK 

PYTHAGORAS 

.     77 

A  BALLAD  OF  NANTUCKET 

.     82 

THE  TRAGEDY      . 

.     85 

HAUNTED   . 

.     92 

PAMPINEA . 

.     94 

A  GREAT  MAN'S  DEATH 

.     99 

KATHIE  MORRIS . 

.   100 

LAMIA 

.  107 

INVOCATION  TO  SLEEP. 

.  109 

SEADRIPT   . 

.  112 

INFELICISSIMUS  . 

.   115 

THE  queen's  RIDE        . 

.   118 

LANDER       . 

.  121 

IV. 


THE  SET  OF  TURQUOISE 
BARBARA    . 


125 
154 


NOTES 159 


I. 


CLOTH    OF    OOLD 


CLOTH     OF    aOLD 


I. 

CLOTH  OF  GOLD. 


You  ask  us  if  by  rule  or  no 

Our  many-colored  songs  are 'wrought  ? 

Upon  the  cunnmg  loom  of  thought, 
We  weave  our  fancies,  so  and  so. 

The  busy  shuttle  comes  and  goes 

Across  the  rhymes,  and  deftly  %Yeaves 
A  tissue  out  of  autumn  leaves. 

With  here  a  thistle,  there  a  rose. 

With  art  and  patience  thus  is  made 
The  poet's  perfect  Cloth  of  Gold  : 
When  v^-oven  so,  nor  moth  nor  mould 

Nor  time,  can  make  its  colors  fade. 


14  CLOTU    OF    GOLD. 


II. 
THE  CEESCENT  AND  THE  CEOSS. 

Kind  was  my  friend  who,  in  the  Eastern  land, 
Eemembered  me  with  such  a  gracious  hand. 
And  sent  this  Moorish  Crescent  which  has  been 
Worn  on  the  tawny  bosom  of  a  queen. 

No  more  it  sinks  and  rises  in  unrest 
To  the  soft  music  of  her  heathen  breast ; 
No  barbarous  chief  shall  bow  before  it  more, 
No  turban'd  slave  shall  envy  and  adore  ! 

I  place  beside  this  relic  of  the  Sun 

A  Cross  of  Cedar  brought  from  Lebanon, 

Once   borne,    perchance,   by  some  pale    monk 

who  trod 
The  desert  to  Jerusalem — and  his  God ! 


CLOTH    OF   GOLD.  15 

Here  do  they  lie,  two  symbols  of  two  creeds, 
Each  meaning  something  to  our  human  needs, 
Both  stained  with  blood,  and  sacred  made  by 

faith, 
By   tears,  and  prayers,   and   martyrdom,   and 

death. 

That  for  the  Moslem  is,  but  this  for  me  ! 
The  Avaning  Crescent  lacks  divinity  : 
It  gives  me  dreams  of  battles,  and  the  woes 
Of  women  shut  in  hushed  seraglios. 

But  when  this  Cross  of  simple  wood  I  see, 
The  Star  of  Bethlehem  shines  again  for  me. 
And  glorious  visions  break  upon  my  gloom — 
The  patient  Christ,  and  Mary  at  the  Tomb ! 


16  CLOTH    OF    GOLD. 


III. 
THE  SHEIK'S  WELCOME. 

Because  thou  com'st,  a  weary  guest, 
Unto  my  tent,  I  bid  thee  rest. 
This  cruse  of  oil,  this  skin  of  wine, 
These  tamarinds  and  dates,  are  thine  ; 
And  while  thou  eatest,  Medjid,  there. 
Shall  bathe  the  heated  nostrils  of  thy  mare. 

Illah  il'  Allah  I     Even  f;o 
An  Arab  chieftain  treats  a  foe, 
Holds  him  as  one  without  a  fault 
Who  breaks  his  bread  and  tastes  his  salt ; 
And,  in  fair  battle,  strikes  him  dead 
With  the  same  pleasure  that  he  gives  him 
bread ! 


CLOTH   OF   GOLD.  IT 


IV. 
THE  TJNFOEGIYEX. 


Near  my  bed,  there,  hangs  the  picture,  jewels 

could  not  buy  from  me  : 
'Tis  a  Sh-en,  a  brown  Sh-en,  in  her  sea-weed 

drapery. 
Playing  on  a  lute  of  amber,  by  the  margin  of  a 

sea. 

In  the  east,  the  rose  of  morning  seems  as  if 

'twould  blossom  soon. 
But  it  never,  never  blossoms,  in  this  picture; 

and  the  moon 
Never  ceases  to  be  crescent,  and  the  June  is 

always  June ! 

And  the  heavy-branched  banana  never  yields 

its  creamy  fruit  ; 
In   the  citron-trees  are   nightingales  for  ever 

stricken  mute  ; 

And  the  Siren  sits,  her  fingers  on  the  pulses  of 

the  lute ! 

2* 


18  CLOTH    OF    GOLD. 

In   the   hushes   of    the    midnight,    when    the 

hehotropes  grow  strong 
With  the  dampness,  I  hear  music — hear  a  quiet, 

plaintive  song — 
A.  most  sad,  melodious  utterance,  as  of  some 

immortal  wrong — 

Like  the  pleading,  oft  repeated,  of  a  Soul  that 

pleads  in  vain, 
Of  a  damned  Soul  repentant,  that  cannot  be 

pure  again ! — 
A-nd  I  lie  awake  and  listen  to  the  music  of  her 

pain ! 

0.  the  mystical,  wild  music  !  how  it  melts  into 

the  white 
or  the  moon  that  turns  the  sombre,  brooding 

shadows  into  light ! 
How  it  sobs  itself  to  slumber  in  the  quiets  of 

the  night  ! 

And   whence   comes  this   mournful  music  ? — 

whence,  unless  it  chance  to  be 
From  the  Siren,  the  sad  Siren,  in  her  sea-weed 

drapery. 
Playing  on  a  lute  of  amber,  by  the  margin  of  a 

sea! 


CLOTH   OF   GOLD. 


Y. 
DRESSING  THE  BEIDE. 
A   Fragmennt. 

So,  after  bath,  the  slave-girls  brought 
The  broidered  raiment  for  her  wear. 
The  misty  izar  from  Mosul, 
The  pearls  and  opals  for  her  hair, 
The  slippers  for  her  supple  feet, 
(Two  radiant  crescent  moons  they  were,) 
And  lavender,  and  spikenard  sweet. 
And  attars,  nedd,  and  richest  musk. 
When  they  had  finished  dressing  her, 
(The  eye  of  morn,  the  heart's  desire !) 
Like  one  pale  star  against  the  dusk, 
A  single  diamond  on  her  brow 
Trembled  with  its  imprisoned  fire ! 


20  CLOTH   OF   GOLD. 


TI. 
TWO  SONGS  FROM  THE  PERSIAN. 


0,  CEASE,  sweet  music,  let  us  rest: 

The  morning  comes,  the  hateful  dawn ! 
Henceforth  let  day  be  counted  night. 
And  midnip^ht  called  the  morn. 


0,  cease,  sweet  music,  let  us  rest; 

A  tearful  languid  spirit  lies 
(Like  the  dim  scent  in  violets,) 
In  Beauty's  gentle  eyes. 

There  is  a  sadness  in  sweet  sound 

That  quickens  tears.     0  music,  lest 
We  weep  with  thy  strange  sorrow,  cease ! 
Be  still,  and  let  us  rest. 

II. 

Ah  !  sad  are  they  who  know  not  love, 
But,  far  from  passion's  tears  and  smiles, 
Drift  down  a  moonless  sea,  beyond 
The  silvery  coasts  of  fairy  isles ! 


CLOTH   OF   GOLD.  21 

And  sadder  they  whose  longing  hps 
Kiss  empty  air,  and  never  touch 
The  dear  warm  mouth  of  those  they  love — 
Waiting,  wasting,  suffering  much  ! 

But  clear  as  amber,  fine  as  musk, 
Is  life  to  those  who,  pilgrim-wise, 
Move  hand  in  hand  from  dawn  to  dusk, 
Each  morning  nearer  Paradise. 

0,  not  for  them  shall  angels  pray  ! 
They  stand  in  everlasting  light, 
They  walk  in  Allah's  smile  by  day, 
And  nestle  in  his  heart  by  night. 


CLOTH   OF   GOLD. 


TIL 
TIGER-LILIES. 

I  LIKE  not  lady-slippers, 

Nor  yet  the  sweet-pea  blossoms, 

Nor  yet  the  flaky  roses, 

Eed,  or  white  as  snow ; 
I  like  the  chaliced  lilies, 
The  heavy  Eastern  lilies, 
The  gorgeous  tiger-lilies. 

That  in  our  garden  grow  ! 

For  they  are  tall  and  slender  ; 

Their  mouths  are  dashed  with  carmine 

And  when  the  wind  sweeps  by  them, 

On  their  emerald  stalks 
They  bend  so  proud  and  graceful — 
They  are  Circassian  women. 
The  favorites  of  the  Sultan, 

Adown  our  p-arden  walks ! 


CLOTH    OF    GOLD. 

And  when  tlie  rain  is  falling, 

I  sit  beside  the  window 

And  watch  them  glow  and  glisten, 

How  they  burn  and  glow ! 
0  for  the  burning  lilies, 
The  tender  Eastern  lilies, 
The  gorgeous  tiger-lilies, 

That  in  our  garden  stow  I 


24  CLOTH   OF  GOLD. 


VIIL 
THE  SULTANA. 

In  the  draperies'  purple  gloom, 
In  the  gilded  chamber  she  stands, 

I  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  bosom's  bloom, 
And  the  white  of  her  jewelled  hands  I 

Each  wandering  wind  that  blows 

By  the  lattice,  seems  to  bear 
From  her  parted  lips  the  scent  of  the  rose 


And  the  jasmine  from  her  hair 


Her  dark-browed  odalisques  lean 
To  the  fountain's  feathery  rain. 

And  a  parroquet,  by  the  broidered  screen, 
Dangles  its  silvery  chain. 

But  pallid,  star-sweet,  and  cold, 
Like  a  phantom  she  fills  the  place, 

Sick  to  the  heart,  in  that  cage  of  gold, 
With  her  sumptuous  disgrace  1 


CLOTH    OF    GOLD.  25 


IX. 
IT  WAS  A  KNIGHT  OF  AEAGON. 


"  Fuerte  qnal  azero  entre  armas, 
Y  quul  cera  entre  lus  damas." 


It  was  a  Kniglit  of  Aragon, 

And  he  was  brave  to  see, 
His  helmet  and  his  hauberk, 

And  the  greaves  upon  his  knee 
His  escuderos  rode  in  front. 

His  cavahers  behind, 
With  stain-cd  plumes  and  gonfalons, 

And  music  in  the  wind  1 


It  was  the  maid  Prudencia, 

The  hly  of  Madrid, 
"Who  watched  him  from  her  balcony, 

Among  the  jasmines  hid. 
3 


CLOTH    OF    GOLD. 

'  0  Virgin  Mother ! '  quoth  the  Knight, 
'  Is  that  the  daybreak  there  ?  ' 

It  was  the  saintly  Hght  that  shone 
Above  the  maiden's  hair  1 

3. 

Then  he  who  crossed  the  Pyrenees 

To  fight  the  dogs  of  France, 
Grew  pale  with  love  for  her  whose  look 

Had  pierced  him  like  a  lance  ; 
And  they  will  wed  the  morrow  morn  : 

Beat  softly,  watchful  stars  ! — 
And  mind  you,  gallant  cavaliers, 

How  Venus  conquers  Mars. 


I 


I 


CLOTH    OF    GOLD. 


WHEN  THE  SULTAN  GOES  TO  ISPAHAN. 

When  the  Sultan  Shali-Zaman 
Goes  to  the  city  Ispahan^ 
Even  before  he  gets  so  far 
As  the  place  where  the  clustered  palm-trees  are. 
At  the  last  of  the  thirty  palace-gates, 
The  pet  of  the  harem,  Rose-in-Bloom, 
Orders  a  feast  in  his  favorite  room — 
Glittering  squares  of  colored  ice. 
Sweetened  with  syrop,  tinctured  with  spice, 
Creams,  and  cordials,  and  sugared  dates, 
Syrian  apples,  Otlmaanee  quinces, 
Limes,  and  citrons,  and  apricots. 
And  wines  that  are  known  to  Eastern  princes  ,• 
And  Nubian  slaves,  with  smoking  pots 
Of  spiced  meats  and  costliest  fish 


28  CLOTH   OF   GOLD. 

And  all  that  the  curious  palate  could  wish, 
Pass  in  and  out  of  the  cedarn  doors ! 
Scattered  over  mosaic  floors 
Are  anemones,  myrtles,  and  violets, 
And  a  musical  fountain  throws  its  jets 
Of  a  hundred  colors  into  the  air  ! 
The  dusk  Sultana  loosens  her  hair, 
And  stains  with  the  henna-plant  the  tips 
Of  her  pearly  nails,  and  bites  her  lips 
Till  they  bloom  again — but,  alas,  that  rose 
Not  for  the  Sultan  buds  and  blows  I 
Not  for  the  Sultan  Shah-Zaman 
When  he  goes  to  the  city  Ispahan  I 

Then  at  a  wave  of  her  sunny  hand, 
The  dancing-girls  of  Samarcand 
Float  in  like  mists  from  Fairy-land  ! 
And  to  the  low  voluptuous  swoons 
Of  music  rise  and  fall  the  moons 
Of  their  full  brown  bosoms.     Orient  blood 
Runs  in  their  veins,  shines  in  their  eyes : 
And  there,  in  this  Eastern  Paradise, 
Filled  with  the  fumes  of  sandal-wood. 
And  Khoten  musk,  and  aloes  and  myrrh, 


CLOTH   OF   GOLD.  29 


Sits  Rose-in-Bloom  on  a  silk  cliYaii. 
Sipping  the  wines  of  Astrakhan  ; 
And  her  Arab  lover  sits  with  her. 
Thafs  when  the  Sultan  Shah-Zaman 
Goes  to  the  city  I^palian  ! 


Flaming,  flickering  on  the  night 
From  my  neighbor's  casement  opposite, 
I  know  as  well  as  I  know  to  pray, 
I  know  as  well  as  a  tongue  can  say, 
That  the  innocent  Saltan  Shah-Zaman 
Has  gone  to  the  city  Ispahan  ! 


3* 


CLOTH    OF    GOLD. 


XI. 
HASCIIEESH. 


Stricken  with  tliouglit,  I  staggered  through 

the  night ; 
The  heavens  leaned  down  to  me  with  splendid 

fires ; 
The  seven  Pleiads,  changed  to  magic  lyres. 
Made  music  as  I  went;  and  to  my  sight 
A  Palace  shaped  itself  against  the  skies  : 
Great  sapphire-studded  portals  suddenly 
Opened  upon  vast  Gothic  galleries 
Of  gold  and  porphyry,  and  I  could  see, 
Through  half-drawn  curtains   that   let  in  the 

day, 
Dim  tropic  gardens  stretching  far  away  1 


Ah !  what  a  wonder  seized  upon  my  soul, 
When  from  that  structure  of  the  upper  airs 


CLOTH    OF    GOLD.  81 

I  saw  unfold  a  flight  of  crystal  stairs 

For  my  ascending Then  I  heard  the  roll 

Of  unseen  oceans  clashing  at  the  Pole,  .  .  . 
A  terror  fell  upon  me  ....  a  vague  sense 
Of  near  calamity.     0,  lead  me  hence  ! 
I  shrieked,  and  lo !  from  out  a  darkhng  hole 
That  opened  at  my  feet,  crawled  after  me, 
Up  the  broad  staircase,  creatures  of  huge  size, 
Fanged,  warty  monsters,  with  their  lips  and 

eyes 
Hung  with  slim  leeches  sucking  hungrily. — 
Away,  vile  drug !  I  will  avoid  thy  spell, 
Honey  of  Paradise,  black  dew  of  Hell! 


CLOTH   OF   GOLD. 


XII. 
A  PRELUDE. 

Hassan  Ben  Abdul  at  the  Ivory  Gate 
Of  Bagdad  sat  and  chattered  in  the  sun, 
Like  any  magpie  chattered  to  himself 
And  four  lank,  swarthy  Arab  boys  that  stopt 
A  gambling  game  with  peach-pits,  and  drew 

near. 
Then  Iman  Khan,  the  friend  of  thirsty  souls, 
The  seller  of  pure  water,  ceased  his  cry. 
And  placed  his  water-skins  against  the  gate — 
They  looked   so   hke   him,  with   their   sallow 

cheeks 
Puffed  out  like  Iraan's  I     Then  a  eunuch  came 
And  swung  a  pack  of  sweetmeats  from  his  head, 
And  stood — a  hideous  pagan  cut  in  jet. 
And  then  a  Jew,  whose  sandal-straps  were  red 
With    desert-dust,    limped,    cringing,    to    the 

crowd — 
lie,  too  would  listen ;  and  close  after  him 


CLOTH    OF    GOLD.  38 

A  jeweller  that  glittered  like  his  shop : 
Then  two  blind  mendicants,  who  wished  to  go 
Six  diverse  "ways  at  once,  came  stumbling  by, 
But  hearing  Hassan  chatter,  sat  them  down. 
And  if  the  Khaleef  had  been  riding  near, 
He  would  have  paused  to  hsten  like  the  rest, 
For  Hassan's  fame  w^as  ripe  in  all  the  East! 
From  spicy  Cairo  to  far  Ispahan, 
From  Mecca  to  Damascus,  he  was  known, 
Hassan,  the  Arab  with  the  Singing  Heart. 
His  songs  were  sung  by  boatmen  on  the  Nile, 
By  BeddoAvee  maidens,  and  in  Tartar  camps, 
"While  all  men  loved  him  as  they  love  their  eyes 
And  w^ien  he  spake,  the  wisest,  next  to  him. 
Was  he  who  listened.     And  thus  Hassan  sung. 
— And  I,  a  stranger,  lingering  in  Bagdad, 
Half  English  and  half  Arab,  by  my  beard  I 
Caught  at  the  gilded  epic  as  it  grew, 
And  for  my  Christian  brothers  wrote  it  down. 


84  CLOTH   OF   GOLD. 


xiir. 

A  TUEKISH  LEGEND. 

A  CERTAIN  Pasha,  dead  five  thousand  years, 
Once  from  his  harem  fled  in  sudden  tears, 

And  had  this  sentence  on  the  city's  gate 
Deeply  engraven,  "  Only  God  is  great." 

So  these  four  words  above  the  city's  noise 
Hung  like  the  accents  of  an  angel's  voice ; 

And  evermore,  from  the  high  barbacan, 
Saluted  each  returning  caravan. 

Lost  is  that  city's  glory.     Every  gust 
Lifts,  with  crisp  leaves,  the  unknown  Pasha's 
dust. 

And  all  is  ruin — save  one  wrinkled  gate 
AVhereon  is  written,  "Only  God  is  great!" 


II. 


SWALLOW -FLIGHTS 


S  W  A  L  L  O  W  -  F  1. 1  G  H  T  S  . 


I. 

GHOSTS. 

Those  forms  we  fancy  shadows,  those  strange 

hghta 
That  flash  on  clank  morasses,  the  quick  wind 
That  smites  us  by  the  roadside — are  the  Night's 
Innumerable  children.     Unconfined 
By  shroud  or  coflin,  disembodied  souls, 
Uneas}^  spirits,  steal  into  the  air 
From  ancient  graveyards  when  the  curfew  tolls 
At  the  day's  death.     Pestilence  and  despair 
Fly  with  the  sightless  bats  at  set  of  sun. 
And  wheresoever  murders  have  been  done, 
In  crowded  palaces  or  lonesome  woods. 
Where'er  a  soul  has  sold  itself  and  lost 
Its  high  inheritance,  there,  hovering,  broods 
Some  sad,  invisible,  accursed  Ghost ! 


38  SWALLOW-FLIGHTS. 


n. 

THE  FADED  VIOLET. 

What  thought  is  folded  in  thy  leares! 
AVhat  tender  thought,  what  speechless  pain  1 
I  hold  thy  faded  lips  to  mine, 
Thou  darling  of  the  April  rain  1 

I  hold  thy  faded  lips  to  mine, 
Though  f^cent  and  azure  tint  arc  fled — 
(3  dry,  mute  lips !  ye  are  the  typo 
Of  something  in  me  cold  and  dead : 

Of  something  wilted  hke  thy  leaves  ; 
Of  fragrance  flown,  of  beauty  gone  ; 
Yet,  for  the  love  of  those  white  hands 
That  found  thee,  April's  earliest-born — 


SWALLOW-JLIGHTS.  39 

That  found  thee  when  thy  dewy  mouth 
Was  purpled  as  with  stains  of  wine — 
For  love  of  her  who  love  forgot, 
I  hold  thy  faded  Kps  to  mine  1 

That  thou  shouldst  live  when  I  am  dead, 
When  hate  is  dead,  for  me,  and  wrong, 
For  this,  I  use  my  subtlest  art, 
For  this,  I  fold  thee  in  my  song. 


40  SWALLOW-FLIGHTS. 


III. 
DEAD. 

A  SORROWFUL  -svoman  said  to  me, 
*  Come  in  and  look  on  our  child  !  ' 
I  saw  an  angel  at  shut  of  day, 
And  it  never  spoke — but  smiled. 

I  think  of  it  in  the  city's  streets, 
I  dream  of  it  wlien  I  rest — 
The  violet  eyes,  the  waxen  hands. 
And  the  one  white  rose  on  the  breast ! 


SWALLOW-FLIGHTS. 


IV. 

THE  LUNCH. 

A  Gothic  window,  where  a  damask  curtain 
Made  the  blank  dayhght  sliadowy  and  uncer- 
tain : 
A  slab  of  agate  on  four  eagle-talons 
Held  trimly  up  and  neatly  taught  to  balance : 
A  porcelain  dish,  o'er  which  in  many  a  cluster 
Plump  grapes  hung  dowm,  dead-ripe  and  with- 
out lustre : 
A  melon  cut  in  thin  delicious  slices : 
A  cake  that  seemed  mosaic-work  in  spices: 
Two  China  cups  with  golden  tulips  sunny, 
And  rich  inside  with  chocolate  like  honey ; 
And  she  and  I  the  banquet-scene  completing 
With  dreamy  words — and  very  pleasant  eating! 


4* 


42  SWALLOW-FLIGHTS. 


V. 
BEFOKE  THE  RAIN. 

We  knew  it  would  rain,  for  all  the  morn, 

A  spirit  on  slender  ropes  of  mist 
Was  low^ering  its  golden  buckets  down 

Into  the  vapory  amethyst 

Of  marshes  and  swamps  and  dismal  fens — 
Scooping  the  dew  that  lay  in  the  flowers, 

Dipping  the  jewels  out  of  the  sea, 

To  sprinkle  them  over  the  land  in  showers. 

We  knew  it  would  rain,  for  the  poplars  showed 
The  white  of  their  leaves,  the  amber  grain 

Shrunk  in  the  wind — and  the  lightning  now 
Is  tangled  in  tremulous  skeins  of  rain  ! 


I 


SW.4LL0W-FLIGnTS.  43 


VI. 
AFTEE  THE  RAIN. 

The  rain  has  ceased,  and  in  my  room 
The  sunshine  pours  an  airy  flood ; 
And  on  the  church's  dizzy  vane 
The  ancient  Cross  is  bathed  in  blood. 

From  out  the  dripping  ivy-leaves, 
Antiquely-carven,  gray  and  high, 
A  dormer,  facing   westward,  looks 
Upon  the  village  like  an  eye  : 

And  now  it  glimmers  in  the  sun, 
A  globe  of  gold,  a  disc,  a  speck : 
And  in  the  belfry  sits  a  Dove 
With  purple  ripples  on  her  neck. 


44  SWALLOW-FLTGHTS. 


Til. 
WEDDED. 

[Proven C(il  Air.] 

1. 

The  happy  bells  shall  ring, 

Marguerite  ; 
The  summer  birds  shall  sing, 

Ifargucr'de  — 
You  smile,  but  you  shall  wear 
Orange  blossoms  in  your  hair. 

Marguerite  ! 


Ah  me  !  the  bells  have  rung 

Marguerite  ; 
The  summer  birds  have  sung, 

Marguerite — 
But  cypress  leaf  and  rue 
Make  a  sorry  wreath  for  you, 

Marguerite  ! 


BTVALLOW-FLTGHTS. 


YIIT. 
THE  BLUE-BELLS  OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

The  roses  are  a  regal  troop, 

And  humble  folks  the  daisies  ; 
Bat,  Blue-bells  of  Xew-England, 

To  you  I  give  my  praises — 
To  you,  fair  phantoms  in  the  sun, 

Whom  merry  Spring  discovers, 
With  blue-birds  for  your  laureates, 

And  honey-bees  for  lovers. 

The  south-wind  breathes,  and  lo !  ye  throng 

This  rugged  land  of  ours — 
I  think  the  pale  blue  clouds  of  May 

Drop  down,  and  turn  to  flowers  ! 
By  cottage  doors  along  the  roads. 

You  show  your  winsome  faces. 
And,  like  the  spectre  lady,  haunt 

The  lonely  woodland  places. 


46  SWALLOW-FLIGETS. 

All  night  your  eyes  are  closed  in  sleep, 

But  open  at  the  dawning ; 
Such  simple  faith  as  yours  can  see 

God's  coming  in  the  morning  ! 
You  lead  me  by  your  holiness, 

To  pleasant  ways  of  duty  : 
You  set  my  thoughts  to  melody, 

You  fill  me  with  your  beauty. 

And  you  are  like  the  eyes  I  love. 

So  modest  and  so  tender, 
Just  touched  with  daybreak's  glorious  light, 

And  evening's  quiet  splendor. 
Long  may  the  heavens  give  you  rain, 

The  sunshine  its  caresses, 
Long  may  the  woman  that  I  love 

Entwine  you  in  her  tresses. 


SWALLOYr-FLIGDTS.  47 


IX. 
NOPwA    McC.\J{TT. 

[Irish  Air.] 

1. 

Z^ToRA  is  pretty, 
Xora  is  witty, 

Witty  and  pretty  as  pretty  can  be  ! 
She's  the  completest 
Of  giiis,  and  the  neatest, 
The  brightest  and  sweetest  : 

But  she's  not  for  me. 

Mavourneen  I 

2. 

Nora,  be  still,  you ! 
Nora,  why  will  you 

Be  witty  and  pretty  as  pretty  can  be. 
So  strong  and  so  slender. 
So  haughty  and  tender. 
So  sweet  in  your  splendor — 

And  yet  not  for  me  ? 

},[avourneen  ! 


*3  SWALLOVr-FLlGHTS. 


X. 
THE  MOOHLAND. 

The  moorland  lies  a  dreary  waste  ; 

The  night  is  dark  with  drizzling  rain  : 
In  yonder  yawning  cave  of  cloud 

The  snaky  lightning  writhes  with  pain. 
And  the  Wind,  is  ivaiUng  hittcrhj. 

0  sobbing  rain,  outside  my  door, 

0  wailing  phantoms,  make  your  moan  ! 

Go  through  the  night  in  blind  despair — 
Your  shadowy  lips  have  touched  my  own 
And  the  Wind  is  wailing  hitterhj. 

No  more  the  robin  breaks  its  heart 
Of  music  in  the  pathless  woods  ! 

The  ravens  croak  for  such  as  I, 

The  plovers  screech  above  their  broods. 
And  the  Wind  is  woiling  hiiicrly. 


SAVALLOW-FLIGniS. 

All  mournful  things  are  friends  of  mine, 
(That  weary  sound  of  falling  leaves!) 

Ah,  there  is  not  a  kindred  soul 

For  me  on  earth,  but  moans  and  grieves. 
And  the  Wind  is  ivailing  hitterly. 

T  cannot  sleep  this  lonesome  night ; 

The  ghostly  rain  goes  by  in  haste, 
And,  further  than  the  eye  can  reach, 

The  moorland  lies  a  dreary  waste  ! 
And  the  Wind  is  luailing  hitterly. 


50  SWALLOW-FLIGHTS. 


XL 
i^AMELESS  PAIN. 

In  my  nostrils  the  summer  wind 

Blows  the  exquisite  scent  of  the  rose ! 

0  for  the  golden,  golden  Avind, 
Breaking  tne  buds  as  it  goes, 

Breaking  the  buds,  and  bending  the  grass, 
And  spilling  the  scent  of  the  rose  ! 

0  wind  of  the  summer  morn. 
Tearing  the  petals  in  twain, 

Wafting  the  fragrant  soul 

Of  the  rose  through  valley  and  plain, 

1  would  you  could  tear  my  heart  to-day, 

And  scatter  its  nameless  pain. 


SWALLOW-FLIGHTS. 


XIL 
THE  GIELS. 

Marian,  May,  and  Maud 
Have  not  passed  me  by — 

Arched  foot,  and  mobile  mouth. 
And  bronze-brown  eye ! 

When  my  hair  is  gray, 

Then  I  shall  be  wise  ; 
Then,  thank  heaven !  I  shall  not  care 

For  bronze-brown  eyes. 

Then  let  Maud  and  May 
Aiid  Marian  pass  me  by  ; 

So  they  do  not  scorn  me  now 
What  care  I  ? 


fi2  SWALLOW-FLIGHTS. 


xin. 
MURDER  DONE. 


Invisible  fingers  of  air 

Just  lifted  the  curtain's  fold, 

Just  rippled  the  calm  of  her  golden  hair, 

Beautiful  treacherous  gold ! 

And  she  stood  like  the  thought  of  a  sculptor, 

carved 
In  marble,  snowy  and  cold  ; 
But  her  pure,  sweet  look  was  as  foul  a  lie 
As  ever  a  woman  told  ! 


A  statue  lay  stark  at  my  feet. 

Dead  to  the  finger-tips  ! 

A  darkness  hung  in  the  lengths  of  her  hair, 

And  shadowed  her  perjured  lips. 


SWALLOW-FLIGHTS.  53 

I  stra.ngled  her  voice,  but,  0  heaven  ! 

I  could  not  strangle  one  moan 

That  followed  me  out  in  the  silent  streets 

As  I  fled  through  the  midnight  alone. 

—  This  in  a  dream.     Now  I  ask, 

Am  I  guilty  as  if  I  were  caught 

With  my  hands  at  her  throat  ?     Is  it  murder 

done? — 
I  murdered  her  in  my  thought  I 


5* 


W  SWALLOW-FLIGHTS. 


xir. 

MIRACLES. 

Sick  of  myself  and  all  that  keeps  the  hght 
Of  heaven  away  from  me  and  mine,  I  seek 
This  bare,  bleak  hill,  and  on  its  highest  peak, 
Lingering,  watch  the  coming  of  the  night. 
'Tis  ever  a  new  miracle  to  me. 
Men  look  to  God  for  some  mysterious  sign. 
For  marriage-feasts  with  water  turned  to  wine, 
For  Christ  to  \valk  upon  the  troubled  sea  ; 
As  if  He  did  not  to  our  sense  unfold 
His  meanings  as  miraculous  as  of  old ! 
Come  watch  with   me  the   shaft  of  fire  that 

glows 
In  yonder  West :  the  fair,  frail  palaces, 
The  fading  Alps  and  archipelagoes, 
And  pfreat  cloud-continents  of  sunset-seas. 


SWALLOW-FLIGHTS. 


XV. 

MAY. 

Hebe's  here,  May  is  here  I 
The  air  is  fresh  and  sunny  ; 
And  the  miser-bees  are  busy 
Hoarding  golden  honey  ! 

See  the  knots  of  butter-cups, 
And  the  double  pansies — 
Thick  as  these,  within  my  brain, 
Grow  the  quaintest  fancies ! 

Let  me  write  my  songs  to-day, 
Rhymes  with  dulcet  closes — 
Four-hne  epics  one  might  hide 
In  the  hearts  of  roses. 


56  SWALLOW-FLIGHTS. 


XVI. 

PALABKAS  CAEINOSAS. 

ISpanUh  Air.] 

Good-night  !  I  have  to  say  good  night 
To  such  a  host  of  peerless  things ! 
Good-night  unto  that  fragile  hand 
All  queenly  with  its  weight  of  rings ; 
Good-night  to  fond,  up-lifted  eyes, 
Good-night  to  chestnut  braids  of  hair, 
Good-night  unto  the  perfect  mouth, 
And  all  the  sweetness  nestled  there — 
The  snowy  hand  detains  me,  then 
I'll  have  to  say  Good-night  again! 

But  there  w^ill  come  a  time,  my  love, 

When,  if  I  read  our  stars  aright, 

I  shall  not  linger  by  this-  porch 

"With  my  adieus.     Till  then,  good  night ! 

You  wish  the  time  were  now  ?     And  I. 

You  do  not  blush  to  wish  it  so  ? 


SWALLOW-FLIGHTS.  67 

You  would  have  blushed  yourself  to  death 

To  own  so  much  a  year  ago — 

What,  both  these  snowy  hands !  ah,  then, 
I'll  have  to  say  Good-night  again  I 


SW  ALLO  W-FLIGH'IS. 


XVII. 
LITTLE  MAUD. 

0  WHERE  is  our  dainty,  our  darling, 

The  daintiest  darling  of  all? 
0  where  is  the  voice  on  the  stairway, 

0  where  is  the  voice  in  the  hall  ? 
The  little  short  steps  in  the  entry, 

The  silvery  laugh  in  the  hall  ? 
0  where  is  our  dainty,  our  darling. 

The  daintiest  darling  of  all, 
Little  Maud  ? 

The  peaches  are  ripe  in  the  orchard, 

The  apricots  ready  to  fall  ; 
And  the  grapes  reach  up  to  the  sunshine 

Over  the  garden-wall — 
But  where  are  the  lips,  full  and  melting, 

That  looked  up  so  pouting  and  red. 
When  we  dangled  the  sun-purpled  bunches 

Of  Isabells  over  her  head  ? 


SWALLOW-FLIGnXS. 

0  rosebud  of  Avomen !  where  are  you  ? 

(She  never  repHes  to  our  call !) 
0  where  is  our  dainty,  our  darhng, 

The  daintiest  darhng  of  all, 
Little  Maud  ? 


00  SWALLOW-FLIGHTS. 

xvin 

BONGS. 


I  HAVE  placed  a  golden 
Ring  upon  the  hand 
Of  the  bhthest  Uttle 
Lady  in  the  land  I 

When  the  early  roses 
Scent  the  sunny  air, 
She  shall  gather  white  ones 
To  tremble  in  her  hair  1 

Hasten,  happy  roses, 
Come  to  me  by  May — 
In  your  folded  petals 
Lies  my  wedding  day. 


The  chestnuts  shine  through  the  cloven  rind, 
And  the  woodland  leaves  are  red,  my  dear ; 
The  scarlet  fuchsias  burn  in  the  wind — 
Funeral  plumes  for  the  Year! 


SWALLOW-FLIGUTS, 


The  Year  which  has  brought  me  so  much  \^oq. 

That  if  it  were  not  for  you,  my  dear, 

I  could  wish  the  fuchsias'  fire  might  glow 

For  me  as  well  as  the  Year. 


The  blackbird  sings  in  the  hazel-brake, 
And  the  squirrel  sits  on  the  tree  ; 

And  Blanche  she  walks  in  the  merry  green- 
wood, 
Down  by  the  summer  sea. 


The  blackbird  lies  when  he  sings  of  love, 
And  the  squirrel,  a  rogue  is  he  ; 

And  Blanche  is  an  arrant  flint,  I  swear, 
And  Hofht  as  ho:ht  can  be. 


0  blackbird,  die  in  the  hazel-brake  ! 
And,  squirrel,  starve  on  the  tree ! 
And  Blanche — you  may  walk   in  the    merry 
greenwood. 
You  are  nothing  more  to  me  ! 
6 


SWALLOW-FLIGHTS. 
IV. 

Out  from  the  depths  of  my  heart 
Had  arisen  this  single  cry, 
Let  me  behold  my  beloved, 
Let  me  behold  her,  and  die. 

At  last,  like  a  sinful  soul 
At  the  portals  of  Heaven  I  lie, 
Never  to  walk  with  the  blest, 
Ah,  never  1  .  .  .  only  to  die. 


SWALLOW-FLIGHTS. 


xrx, 
HESPEKIDE3. 

If  thy  soul,  Herrick,  dwelt  with  me, 
This  is  what  my  songs  would  be  : 

Hints  of  our  sea-breezes,  blent 
"With  odors  from  the  Orient ; 
Indian  vessels  deep  with  spice  ; 
Star-showers  from  the  Norland  ice  ; 
Wine-red  jewels  that  seem  to  hold 
Fire,  but  only  burn  with  cold  ; 
Antique  goblets,  strangely  wrought, 
Filled  with  the  wine  of  happy  thought ; 
Bridal  measures,  vain  regrets, 
Laburnum  buds  and  violets  ; 
Hopeful  as  the  break  of  day  ; 
Clear  as  crystal ;  new  as  May  j 
Musical  as  brooks  that  run 
O'er  yellow  shallows  in  the  sun  ; 


64  SWALLOW-FLIGHTS. 

Soft  as  the  satin  fringe  that  shades 
The  eyehds  of  thy  fragrant  maids ; 
Brief  as  thy  lyrics,  Herrick,  are, 
And  pohshed  as  the  bosom  of  a  star. 


SWALLOW-FLIGHTS.  65 


XX. 
THE  POET. 

He  wasted  precious  gifts  of  Grod. 
But  here's  the  hmit  of  his  woes, 
Sleep  rest  him  !     See,  above  him  grows 

The  very  grass  whereon  he  trod. 

He  walked  with  demons,  ghosts,  and  things 
Unsightly  .  .  .  terrors  and  despairs. 
And  ever  in  the  blackened  airs 

A  dismal  raven  flapped  its  wings. 

Behold !  within  this  narrow  grave 

Is  shut  the  baser  part  of  him. 

Behold  !  he  could  not  wholly  dim 
The  genius  gracious  heaven  gave — 


Weird  murmurings,  vague  prophetic  tones, 
Are  blown  across  the  silent  zones 
Forever  in  the  midnight  air. 
6* 


fifi  S\VALL0W-FLIGHT3. 


XXT. 
THE  EOBIN. 


From  out  the  blossomed  cherry-tops 
Sing,  bHthesome  Robin,  chant  and  sing; 
With  chirp,  and  trill,  and  magic-stops 
Win  thou  the  listening  ear  of  Spring ! 

For  while  thou  lingerest  in  d-elight, 
An  idle  poet,  with  thy  rhyme. 
The  summer  hours  will  take  their  flight 
And  leave  thee  in  a  barren  clime. 

Not  all  the  Autumn's  brittle  gold. 
Nor  sun,  nor  moon,  nor  star  shall  bring 
The  jocund  spirit  which  of  old 
Made  it  an  easy  joy  to  sing ! 

So  said  a  poet — having  lost 
The  precious  time  when  he  was  young — 
Now  wandering  by  the  wintry  coast 
With  empty  heart  and  silent  tongue. 


III. 

THE  B,^T,LAD   OF  BABIE  BELL 

AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  BABIE  BELL, 

AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


THE  BALLAD  OF  BABIE  BELL, 


Have  you  not  heard  the  poets  tell 
How  came  the  dainty  Babie  Bell 

Into  this  world  of  ours  ? 
The  gates  of  heaven  were  left  ajar : 
With  folded  hands  and  dreamy  eyes, 
Wandering  out  of  Paradise, 
She  saw  this  planet,  like  a  star, 

Hung  in  the  glistening  depths  of  even — 
Its  bridges,  running  to  and  fro, 
O'er  which  the  white-winged  Angels  go. 

Bearing  the  holy  Dead  to  heaven  ! 
She  touched  a  bridge  of  flowers — those  feet, 
So  hght  they  did  not  bend  the  bells 
Of  the  celestial  asphodels ! 


70  THE    BALLAD    OF    BABIE    BELL. 

They  fell  like  clew  upon  the  flowers, 
Then  all  the  air  grew  strangely  sweet ! 
And  thus  came  dainty  Babie  Bell 
Into  this  world  of  ours. 

II. 

She  came  and  brought  delicious  May. 

The  swallows  built  beneath  the  eaves ; 

Like  sunlight  in  and  out  the  leaves, 
The  robins  went,  the  live-long  day ; 
The  lily  swung  its  noiseless  bell, 

And  o'er  the  porch  the  trembling  vine 

Seemed  bursting  with  its  veins  of  wine ; 
How  sweetly,  softly,  twilight  fell ! 
0,  earth  was  full  of  singing-birds, 
And  opening  spring- tide  flowers, 
When  the  dainty  Babie  Bell 

Came  to  this  world  of  ours  ! 


0  Babie,  dainty  Babie  Bell, 
IIow  Mv  she  grew  from  day  to  day ! 

"What  woman-nature  fllled  her  eyes, 
What  poetry  within  them  lay  ! 


THE  BALLAD  OF  BABIE  BELL.         T 

Those  deep  and  tender  twilight  eyes, 
So  fall  of  meaning,  pure  and  bright 
As  if  she  yet  stood  in  the  light 
Of  those  oped  gates  of  Paradise ! 
And  so  we  loved  her  more  and  more  : 
Ah,  never  in  our  hearts  before 

Was  love  so  lovely  born  : 
We  felt  we  had  a  link  between 
This  real  world  and  that  unseen — 

The  land  beyond  the  morn  ! 
And  for  the  love  of  those  dear  eyes, 
For  love  of  her  whom  God  led  forth, 
(The  mother's  being  ceased  on  earth 
When  Babie  came  from  Paradise) — 
For  love  of  Him  who  smote  our  lives, 

And  woke  the  chords  of  joy  and  pain. 
We  said,  Dear  Christ ! — our  hearts  bent  down 

Like  violets  after  rain. 


IT. 

And  now  the  orchards,  which  were  white 
And  red  with  blossoms  when  she  came, 
Were  rich  in  autumn's  mellow  prime : 


72         THE  BALLAD  OF  BABIE  BELL. 

The  clustered  apples  burnt  like  flame, 
The  soft-cheeked  peaches  blushed  and  fell, 
The  ivory  chestnut  burst  its  shell, 
The  grapes  hung  purpling  in  the  grange  : 
And  time  wrought  just  as  rich  a  change 

In  little  Babie  Bell. 
Her  lissome  form  more  perfect  grew, 
And  in  her  features  we  could  trace. 
In  softened  curves,  her  mother's  face ! 
Her  angel-nature  ripened  too. 
We  thought  her  lovely  when  she  came. 

But  she  was  holy,  saintly  now  .... 

Around  her  pale  angelic  brow 
We  saw  a  slender  ring:  of  flame  ! 


V. 

God's  hand  had  taken  away  the  seal 

That  held  the  portals  of  her  speech ; 
And  oft  she  said  a  few  strange  words 

Whose  meaning  lay  beyond  our  reach. 
She  never  was  a  child  to  us, 
We  never  held  her  being's  key : 
We  could  not  teach  her  holy  things : 
She  was  Christ's  self  in  purity. 


TUE    BALLAD    OF    BABIE    BELL.  T3 


It  came  upon  us  by  degrees : 

We  saw  its  shadow  ere  it  fell, 

The  knowledge  that  our  God  had  sent 

His  messenger  for  Babie  Bell. 

We  shuddered  with  unlanguaged  pain, 

And  all  our  hopes  were  changed  to  fears, 

And  all  our  thoughts  ran  into  tears 

Like  sunshine  into  rain. 

We  cried  aloud  in  our  belief, 

'  0,  smite  us  gently,  gently,  God  ! 

Teach  us  to  bend  and  kiss  the  rod, 

And  perfect  grow  through  grief.' 

Ah,  how  we  loved  her,  God  can  tell ; 

Her  heart  was  folded  deep  in  ours. 

Our  hearts  are  broken,  Babie  Bell ! 


The  messenger  from  unseen  lands  : 
And  what  did  dainty  Babie  Bell  ? 
She  only  crossed  her  little  hands. 
She  only  looked  more  meek  and  fair  I 
We  parted  back  her  silken  hair : 
7 


THE  BALLAD  OF  BABIE  BELL, 

We  wove  the  roses  round  her  brow, 
White  buds,  the  summer's  drifted  snow — 
Wrapped  her  from  head  to  foot  in  flowers  I 
And  thus  went  dainty  Babie  Bell 
Out  of  this  world  of  ours  I 


PISCATAQUA   RIV£R.  T5 


PISCATAQUA  PwIVEK. 
1S60. 

Thou  singest  by  the  gleaming  isles, 
By  woods  and  fields  of  corn, 

Thou  singest,  and  the  heaven  smiles 
Upon  my  birthday  morn. 

But  I  within  a  city,  I, 

So  full  of  vague  unrest, 
Would  almost  give  my  life  to  lie 

An  hour  upon  thy  breast. 

To  let  the  wherry  listless  go. 
And,  wrapped  in  dreamy  joy, 

Dip,  and  surge  idly  to  and  fro, 
Like  the  red  harbor-buoy  ! 


76  PISCATAQUA    RIVER. 

To  sit  in  happy  indolence, 

To  rest  upon  the  oars, 
And  catch  the  heavy  earthy  scents 

That  blow  from  summer  shores  : 

To  see  the  rounded  sun  go  down, 

And  with  its  parting  fires 
Light  up  the  windows  of  the  town 

And  burn  the  tapering  spires ! 

And  then  to  hear  the  muffled  tolls 
From  steeples  slim  and  white, 

And  watch,  among  the  Isles  of  Shoals, 
The  Beacon's  orange  light. 

0  River  !  flowing  to  the  main 

Through  woods  and  fields  of  corn, 

Hear  thou  my  longing  and  my  pain 
This  sunny  birthday  morn  : 

And  take  this  song  which  sorrow  shapes 

To  music  like  thine  own. 
And  sing  it  to  the  cliffs  and  capes 

And  crap's  where  I  am  known ! 


PYTHAGORAS.  77 


PYTHAGOEAS. 

Above  the  petty  passions  of  the  crowd 
I  stand  in  frozen  marble  hke  a  god, 
Inviolate,  and  ancient  as  the  moon. 
The  thing  I  am,  and  not  the  thing  Man  is, 
Fills  my  deep  dreaming.     Let  him  moan  and 

die ; 
For  he  is  dust  that  shall  be  laid  again  : 
I  know  my  own  creation  was  divine. 
Strewn  on  the  breezy  continents  I  see 
The  veined  shells  and  burnished  scales  which 

once 
Enwrapped  my  being — husks  that  had  their  use  ; 
I  brood  on  all  the  shapes  I  must  attain 
Before  I  reach  the  Perfect,  which  is  God, 
And  dream  my  dream,  and  let  the  rabble  go ; 
For  I  am  of  the  mountains  and  the  sea. 
The  deserts,  and  the  caverns  in  the  earth, 
The  catacombs  and  fragments  of  old  worlds. 


78  PYTHAGORAS. 

I  was  a  spirit  on  the  mountain-tops, 
A  perfume  in  the  valleys,  a  simoom 
On  arid  deserts,  a  nomadic  wind 
Roaming  the  universe,  a  tireless  Voice. 
I  was  ere  Romulus  and  Remus  were; 
I  was  ere  Nineveh  and  Babylon; 
I  was,  and  am,  and  evermore  shall  be, 
Progressing,  never  reaching  to  the  end. 

A  hundred  years  I  trembled  m  the  grass, 
The  delicate  trefoil  that  muffled  warm 
A  slope  on  Ida ;  for  a  hundred  years 
Moved  in  the  purple  gyre  of  those  dark  flowers 
The  Grecian  women  strew  upon  the  dead. 
Under  the  earth,  in  fragrant  glooms,  I  dwelt ; 
Then  in  the  veins  and  sinews  of  a  pine 
On  a  lone  isle,  where,  from  the  Cyclades, 
A  mighty  wind,  like  a  leviathan, 
Ploughed  through  the  brine,  and  from    thowe 

solitudes 
Sent  Silence,  frightened.    To  and  fro  I  swayed, 
Drawing  the  sunshine  from  the  stooping  clouds. 
Suns  came  and  went,  and  many  a  mystic  moon, 
Orbing  and  waning,  and  fierce  meteors, 
Leaving  their  lurid  ghosts  to  haunt  the  night. 
I  h(!ard  loud  voices  by  the  sounding  shore, 


PYTHAGORAS.  79 

The  stormy  sea-gods,  and  from  fluted  conclis 
Wild  music,  and  strange  shadows  floated  by, 
Some   moaning   and   some    singing.      So    the 

years 
Clustered  about  me,  till  the  hand  of  God 
Let  down  the  lightning  from  a  sultry  sky, 
Splintered  the  pine  and  spht  the  iron  rock ; 
And  from  my  odorous  prison-house  a  bii  d, 
I  in  its  bosom,  darted :  so  we  fled, 
Turning  the  brittle  edge  of  one  high  wave, 
Island  and  tree  and  sea-gods  left  behind  ! 

Free  as  the  air  from  zone  to  zone  I  flew. 
Far  from  the  tumult  to  the  quiet  gates 
Of  daybreak ;  and  beneath  me  I  beheld 
Vineyards,  and  rivers  that  like  silver  threads 
Ean  through  the  green  and  gold  of  pasture-lands. 
And  here  and  there  a  hamlet,  a  white  rose, 
And  here  and  there  a  city,  whose  slim  spires 
And  palace-roofs  and  swollen  domes  uprose 
Like  scintillant  stalagmites  in  the  sun  ; 
I  saw  huge  navies  battling  with  a  storm 
By  ragged  reefs  along  the  desolate  coasts. 
And  lazy  merchantmen,  that  crawled,  like  flies, 
Over  the  blue  enamel  of  the  sea 
To  India  or  the  icy  Labradors, 


80  PYTHAGORAS. 

A  century  was  as  a  single  day. 
What  is  a  day  to  an  immortal  soul  ? 
A  breath,  no  more.     And  yet  I  hold  one  hour 
Beyond  all  price — that  hour  when  from  the  sky 
I  circled  near  and  nearer  to  the  earth, 
Nearer  and  nearer,  till  I  brushed  my  wings 
Against  the  pointed  chestnuts,  where  a  stream 
That  foamed  and  chattered  over  pebbly  shoals, 
Fled  through  the  briony,  and  with  a  shout 
Leaped  headlong  down  a  precipice  ;  and  there, 
Gathering  wild-flowers  in  the  cool  ravine, 
Wandered  a  woman  more  divinely  shaped 
Than  any  of  the  creatures  of  the  air, 
Or  river-goddesses,  or  restless  shades 
Of  noble  matrons  marvellous  in  their  time 
For  beauty  and  great  suffering ;  and  I  sung, 
I  charmed  her  thought,  I  gave  her  dreams,  and 

then 
Down  from  the  dewy  atmosphere  I  stole 
And  nestled  in  her  bosom.     There  I  slept 
From   moon   to   moon,    while   in   her   eyes   a 

thought 
Grew  sweet  and  sweeter,  deepening  like  the 

dawn — 
A  mystical  forewarning  !     When  the  stream, 


PYTnAGORAS.  81 

Breaking  through  leafless  brambles  and  dead 

leaves, 
Piped  shriller  treble,  and  from  chestnut  boughs 
The  fruit  dropped  noiseless  through  the  autumn 

night, 
I  gave  a  quick,  low  cry,  as  infants  do  : 
We  vreep  when  we  are  born,  not  when  we  die  ! 
So  was  it  destined ;  and  thus  came  I  here, 
To  walk  the  earth  and  wear  the  form  of  Man, 
To  suffer  bravely  as  becomes  my  state, 
One  step,  one  grade,  one  cycle  nearer  God. 

And  knowing  these  things,  can  I  stoop  to  fret, 
And  lie,  and  haggle  in  the  market-place, 
Give  dross  for  dross,  or  everything  for  naught  ? 
Xo  !  let  me  sit  above  the  crowd,  and  sing, 
Waiting  with  hope  for  that  miraculous  change 
Which  seems  like  sleep  ;  and  though  I  waiting 

starve, 
I  cannot  kiss  the  idols  that  are  set 
By  every  gate,  in  every  street  and  park ; 
I  cannot  fawn,  I  cannot  soil  my  soul : 
For  I  am  of  the  mountains  and  the  sea, 
The  deserts  and  the  caverns  in  the  earth. 
The  catacombs  and  fras-ments  of  old  worlds. 


A    BALLAD    OF    NANTUCKET. 


A  BALLAD  OF  NANTUCKET. 

*  Where  go  you,  pretty  !Maggie, 
Where  go  you  in  the  rain  ? 
I  go  to  ask  the  sailors 
Wlio  sailed  the  Spanish  main, 

'  If  they  have  seen  my  Willie, 
If  he'll  come  back  to  me — 
It  is  so  sad  to  have  him 
A-sailing  on  the  sea !' 

'  0  Maggie,  pretty  Maggie, 
Turn  back  to  yonder  town  ; 
Your  Willie's  in  the  ocean, 
A  hundred  fathoms  down  1 


A    BALLAD    OF    NANTUCKET. 

His  hair  is  turned  to  sea-kelp, 
His  eyes  are  changed  to  stones, 
And  twice  two  years  have  knitted 
The  coral  round  his  bones ! 

'  The  blossoms  and  the  clover 
Shall  bloom  and  bloom  again, 
But  never  shall  your  lover 
Come  o'er  the  Spanish  main  I' 

But  Maggie  never  heeded, 
For  mournfully  said  she : 
'  It  is  so  sad  to  have  him 
A-sailing  on  the  sea  !' 

She  left  me  in  the  darkness  : 
I  heard  the  sea-gulls  screech, 
And  burly  winds  were  growling 
With  breakers  on  the  beach ! 

The  bells  of  old  Nantucket, 
What  touching  things  they  said, 
When  Maggie  lay  a-sleeping 
With  hhes  round  her  head  I 


8i 


A    BALLAD    OF    NANTUCKET. 

The  parson  preached  a  sermon, 
And  prayed  and  preached  again — 
But  she  had  gone  to  WilUe 
Across  the  Spanish  main  ! 


THE    TRAGEDY.  85 


THE  TRAGEDY. 

LA  DAME  AVX  CAMELIA8. 

The  ^^  Dame  with  the  Camelias" — 

I  think  that  was  the  play ; 
The  house  was  packed  from  pit  to  dome 

With  the  gallant  and  the  gay, 
Who  had  come  to  see  the  Tragedy, 

And  while  the  hours  away. 

There  was  the  oily  Exquisite, 
With  gloves  and  glass  sublime ; 

There  was  the  grave  Historian, 
And  there  the  man  of  Rhyme, 

And  the  surly  Critic,  front  to  front, 
To  see  the  play  of  Crime. 

And  there  was  pompous  Ignorance, 
And  Vice  in  Honiton  lace  ; 


86  THE    TRAGEDY. 

Sir  Crcesus  and  Sir  Pandarus — 

And  the  music  played  apace. 
But  of  all  that  crowd  I  only  saw 

A  single,  single  face  ! 

That  of  a  girl  whom  I  had  known 

In  the  summers  long  ago, 
When  her  breath  was  like  the  new-mown  hay, 

Or  the  sweetest  flowers  that  grow — 
When  her  heart  was  light,  and  her  soul  was 
white 

As  the  winter's  driven  snow. 

'Twas  in  our  own  New  England 

She  breathed  the  morning  air  ; 
'Twas  the  sunshine  of  New  England 

That  blended  with  her  hair ; 
And  modesty  and  purity 

Walked  with  her  everywhere ! 

All  day  like  a  ray  of  light  she  played 

About  old  Harvey's  mill ; 
And  her  grandsire  held  her  on  his  knee 

In  the  evenings  long  and  still. 
And  told  her  tales  of  Lexington, 

And  the  trench  at  Bunker's  Hill — 


THE    TRAGEDY, 

And  of  the  painted  Wamponsags, 

The  Indians  who  of  yore 
Builded  their  wigwams  out  of  bark 

In  the  woods  of  Sagamore  ; 
And  how  the  godly  Puritans 

Burnt  witches  by  the  score  ! 

Or,  touching  on  his  sailor-life, 

He  told  how,  years  ago, 
In  the  dark  of  a  cruel  winter  night. 

In  the  rain  and  sleet  and  snow, 
The  good  bark  Martha  Jane  went  down 

On  the  rocks  off  Holmes'  Ho' ! 

The  years  jflew  by,  and  the  maiden  grew 

Like  a  harebell  in  the  glade  ; 
The  chestnut  shadows  crept  in  her  eyes — 

Sweet  eyes  that  were  not  afraid 
To  look  to  heaven  at  morn  or  even. 

Or  any  time  she  prayed  ! 

She  walked  with  him  to  the  village  church. 
And  his  eyes  would  fill  with  pride 

To  see  her  walk  with  the  man  she  loved — 
To  see  them  side  by  side  ! 


8^  THE    TRAGEDY. 

Dear  Heaven  !  she  were  an  angel  now 
If  she  had  only  died. 

If  she  had  only  died  ?     Alas ! 

How  keen  must  be  the  woe 
That  makes  it  better  one  should  lie 

Where  the  sunshine  cannot  go, 
Than  to  live  in  this  sunny  world  of  ours, 

Where  the  happy  blossoms  blow  ! 

Would  she  had  wed  some  country  clown 

Before  the  luckless  day 
When  her  cousin  came  to  that  lowly  home- 

Her  cousin  Richard  May, 
With  his  city  airs  and  handsome  eyes. 

To  lead  her  soul  astray  ! 

One  night  they  left  the  cottage — 
One  night  in  the  mist  and  rain  ; 

And  the  old  man  never  saw  his  child 
Nor  Richard  May  again  ; 

Never  saw  his  pet  in  the  clover  patch, 
In  the  meadow,  nor  the  lane. 

Ah !  never  was  a  heart  so  torn 
Since  this  wild  world  began, 


THE    TRAGEDY.  f9 

As  day  by  day  he  looked  for  her, 

This  pitiful  old  man. 
"  Where  is  Miriam  gone  ?"  he  said, 

This  pitiful  old  man. 

Many  a  dreary  winter  came, 

And  he  had  passed  away  ; 
And  we  never  heard  of  her  who  fled 

In  the  night  with  Richard  May ; 
Never  knew  if  she  were  alive  or  dead — 

Till  I  met  her  at  the  play  ! 

And  there  she  sat  with  her  great  brown  eyes, 

They  wore  a  troubled  look ; 
And  I  read  the  history  of  her  life 

As  it  were  an  open  book  ; 
And  saw  her  Soul,  like  a  slimy  thing 

In  the  bottom  of  a  brook. 

There  she  sat  in  her  rustling  silk. 

With  diamonds  on  her  wrist, 
And  on  her  brow  a  burning  thread 

Of  pearl  and  amethyst. 
"  A  cheat,  a  gilded  grief!"  I  said, 

And  my  eyes  were  filled  with  mist. 
S* 


90  THE    TRAGEDY. 

I  could  not  see  the  players  play, 

I  heard  the  music  moan  ; 
It  moaned  hke  a  dismal  autumn  wind, 

That  dies  in  the  woods  alone  ; 
And  when  it  stopped  I  heard  it  still, 

The  mournful  monotone  ! 

What  if  the  Count  were  true  or  false  ? 

I  did  not  care,  not  I ; 
What  if  Camille  for  Armand  died  ? 

I  did  not  see  her  die. 
There  sat  a  woman  opposite 

Who  held  me  with  her  eye  ! 

The  great  green  curtain  fell  on  all, 
On  laugh,  and  wine,  and  woe, 

Just  as  death  some  day  will  fall 
'Twixt  us  and  life,  I  know  ! 

The  play  was  done,  the  bitter  play, 
And  the  people  turned  to  go. 

And  did  they  see  the  Tragedy? 

They  saw  the  painted  scene; 
They  saw  Armand,  the  jealous  fool. 

And  the  sick  Parisian  quean ; 


THE    TRAGEDY.  91 

But  they  did  not  see  the  Tragedy — 
The  one  I  saw,  I  mean ! 

They  did  not  see  that  cold-cut  face, 

Those  braids  of  golden  hair ; 
Or,  seeing  her  jewels,  only  said, 

'•  The  lady's  rich  and  fair." 
But  I  tell  you,  'twas  the  Play  of  Life, 

And  that  woman  played  Despair  I 


92  HAUNTED. 


HAUNTED. 

A  NOISOME  mildewed  vine 

Crawls  to  the  rotting  eaves  ; 

The  gate  has  dropped  from  the  rusty  hinge 

And  the  walks  are  stamped  with  leaves. 

Close  by  the  shattered  fence 

The  red-clay  road  runs  by 

To  a  haunted  wood,  where  the  hemlocks  groan 

And  the  willows  sob  and  sigh. 

Among  the  dank  lush  flowers 

The  spiteful  firefly  glows, 

And  a  woman  steals  by  the  stagnant  pond 

Wrapped  in  her  burial  clothes. 


93 


There's  a  dark  blue  scar  on  her  throat, 
And  ever  she  makes  a  moan, 
And  the  humid  hzards  shine  in  the  grass, 
And  the  Hchens  weep  on  the  stone ; 

And  the  Moon  shrinks  in  a  cloud, 
And  the  traveller  shakes  with  fear, 
And  an  Owl  on  the  skirts  of  the  wood 
Hoots,  and  says,  Do  you  hear  ? 

Go  not  there  at  night, 

For  a  spell  hangs  over  all — 

The  palsied  elms,  and  the  dismal  road, 

And  the  broken  garden-wall. 

0,  go  not  there  at  night. 
For  a  curse  is  on  the  place ; 
Go  not  there,  for  fear  you  meet 
The  Murdered  face  to  face  ! 


94  PAMPINEA. 


PAMPIKEA. 

AN   IDYL. 

Lying  by  the  summer  sea 
I  had  a  dream  of  Italy. 

Chalky  cliffs  and  miles  of  sand, 
Mossy  reefs  and  salty  caves, 
Then  the  sparkling  emerald  waves, 
Faded ;  and  I  seemed  to  stand, 
Myself  a  languid  Florentine, 
In  the  heart  of  that  Mr  land. 
And  in  a  garden  cool  and  green, 
Boccaccio's  own  enchanted  place, 
I  met  Pampinea  face  to  face — 
A  maid  so  lovely  that  to  see 
Her  smile  is  to  know  Italy ! 


PAMPINEA. 

Her  hair  was  like  a  coronet 
Upon  tier  Grecian  forehead  set, 
Where  one  gem  gUstened  sunnily- 
Like  Venice,  when  first  seen  at  sea. 
I  saw  within  her  violet  eyes 
The  starlight  of  Italian  skies, 
And  on  her  brow  and  breast  and  hand 
The  olive  of  her  native  land! 

And  knowing  how  in  other  times 
Her  lips  were  ripe  with  Tuscan  rhymes 
Of  love  and  wine  and  dance,  I  spread 
My  mantle  by  an  almond-tree, 
"And  here,  beneath  the  rose,"  I  said, 
"I'll  hear  thy  Tuscan  melody." 
I  heard  a  tale  that  was  not  told 
In  those  ten  dreamy  days  of  old, 
When  Heaven,  for  some  divine  offence, 
Smote  Florence  with  the  pestilence  ; 
And  in  that  garden's  odorous  shade, 
The  dames  of  the  Decameron, 
With  each  a  loyal  lover,  strayed, 
To  laugh  and  sing,  at  sorest  need, 
To  lie  in  the  lilies  in  the  sun 
W^ith  glint  of  plume  and  golden  brede  I 


96  PAMPINEA. 

And  while  she  whispered  in  my  ear, 

The  pleasant  Arno  murmured  near. 

The  dewy,  slim  chameleons  run 

Through  twenty  colors  in  the  sun  ; 

The  breezes  broke  the  fountain's  glass, 

And  woke  fcolian  melodies. 

And  shook  from  out  the  scented  trees 

The  bleached  lemon-blossoms  on  the  grass. 

The  tale  ?     I  have  forgot  the  tale — 

A  Lady  all  for  love  forlorn, 

A  rose-bud,  and  a  nightingale 

That  bruised  his  bosom  on  the  thorn ; 

A  pot  of  rubies  buried  deep, 

A  glen,  a  corpse,  a  child  asleep, 

A  Monk,  that  was  no  monk  at  all, 

In  the  moonlight  by  a  castle  wall. 

Now  while  the  large-eyed  Tuscan  wove 
The  gilded  thread  of  her  romance — 
Which  I  have  lost  by  grievous  chance — 
The  one  dear  woman  that  I  love, 
Beside  me  in  our  sea-side  nook, 
Closed  a  white  finger  in  her  book. 
Half  vexed  that  she  should  read,  and  weep 
For  Petrarch,  to  a  man  asleep  ! 


PAMPIXEA.  97 

And  scorning  me,  so  tame  and  cold, 
She  rose,  and  wandered  down  the  shore, 
Her  wine-dark  drapery,  fold  in  fold. 
Imprisoned  by  an  ivory  hand  ; 
And  on  a  ledge  of  oohte,  half  in  sand. 
She  stood,  and  looked  at  Appledore. 

And  waking,  I  beheld  her  there 
Sea-dreaming  in  the  moted  air, 
A  siren  lithe  and  debonair, 
"With  wristlets  woven  of  scarlet  weeds, 
And  oblong  lucent  amber  beads 
Of  sea-kelp  shining  in  her  hair. 
And  as  I  thought  of  dreams,  and  how 
The  something  in  us  never  sleeps, 
But  laughs,  or  sings,  or  moans,  or  weeps, 
She  turned — and  on  her  breast  and  brow 
I  sa^t  the  tint  that  seemed  not  won 
From  kisses  of  New  England  sun  ; 
I  saw  on  brow  and  breast  and  hand 
The  olive  of  a  sunnier  land ! 
She  turned — and,  lo  !  within  her  eyes 
There  lay  the  starlight  of  Italian  skies ! 
Most  dreams  are  dark,  beyond  the  range 
Of  reason;  oft  we  cannot  tell 
9 


98  TAMPIXEA. 

If  they  are  born  of  heaven  or  hell : 
But  to  my  soul  it  seems  not  strange 
That,  lying  by  the  summer  sea, 
With  that  dark  woman  watching  me, 
I  slept  and  dreamed  of  Italy  ! 


A    GREAT    MAN  S    DEATH. 


A  GEEAT  MAN'S  DEATH. 


To-day  a  god  died.     Never  any  more 
Shall  man  look  on  him.     Never  any  more, 
In  hall  or  senate,  shall  his  eloquent  voice 
Give  hope  to  a  sick  nation.     In  his  prime 
Not  all  the  world  could  daunt  him  ;  yet  a  ghost 
A  poor  mute  ghost,  a  something  we  call  Death, 
Has  silenced  him  for  ever.     Let  the  land 
Look  for  his  peer :  he  has  not  yet  been  found. 

A  callow  bird,  of  not  so  many  days 
As  there  are  leaves  upon  the  wildling  rose, 
Chirps  from  yon  sycamore  ;  this  violet 
Sprung  up  an  hour  since  from  the  fibrous  earth : 
At  noon  the  rain  fell,  and  to-night  the  sun 
"Will  sink  with  its  old  splendor  in  the  sea, — 
And  yet  to-day  a  god  died.  .  .  .  Nature  smiles 
On  our  mortality.     A  sparrow's  death, 
Or  the  unnoticed  falling  of  a  leaf. 
Is  more  to  her  than  when  a  ereat  man  dies ! 


100  KATHIE    MORRIS. 


KATHIE  MORRIS. 

AN  OLD  man's  poem. 
1.1 

Ah  !  fine  it  was  that  April  time,  when  gentle 

winds  were  blowing, 
To   hunt    for  pale    arbutus-blooms   that   hide 

beneath  the  leaves. 
To  hear  the  slanting  rain  come  down,  and  see 

the  clover  growing, 
And  watch  the  airy  swallows  as  they  darted 

round  the  eaves ! 


You  wonder  why  I  dream  to-niglit  of  clover 

that  was  growing 
So  many  years  ago,  my  wife,  when  we  were  in 

our  prime ; 


KATHIE    MORRIS.  ''^1 

For,  hark !  the  wind  is  in  the  flue,  and  Johnny 

says  'tis  snowing, 
And  through  the  storm  the  clanging  bells  ring 

in  the  Christmas  time. 


I  cannot  tell,  but  something  sweet  about  my 

heart  is  clinging. 
A  vision  and  a  memory — 'tis  little  that  I  mind 
The  weary   wintry    weather,  for    I    hear  the 

robins  singing. 
And  the  petals  of  the  apple-blooms  are  ruffled 

in  the  wind ! 


It  was  a  sunny  morn  in  May,  and  in  the  fra- 
grant meadow 
I  lay,  and  dreamed  of  one  fair  face,  as  fair  and 

fresh  as  spring : 
Would  Kathie  Morris  love  me?  then  in  sun- 
shine and  in  shadow 
I  built  up  lofty  castles  on  a  golden  wedding- 
ring  ! 

9* 


102  KATHIE    MORRIS. 

5. 

0,  sweet  it  was  to  dream  of  lier,  the  soldier's 

only  daughter, 
The  pretty  pious  Puritan,  that  flirted  so  with 

Will  ; 
The  music  of  her  winsome  mouth  was  like  the 

laughing  water 
That  broke    in    silvery    syllables    by   Farmer 

Philip's  mill. 

6. 

And  Will  had  gone  away  to  sea;  he  did  not 

leave  her  grieving ; 
Her  bonny  heart  was  not  for  him,  so  reckless 

and  so  vain ; 
And  Will  turned  out  a  buccaneer,  and  hanged 

was  he  for  thieving 
And  scuttling  helpless  ships  that  sailed  across 

the  Spanish  Main. 


And  I  had  come  to  grief  for  her,  the  scornful 

village  beauty, 
For,  oh  I  she  had  a  witty  tongue  could  cut  you 

like  a  knife : 


KATHIB    MORRIS.  1?3 

She  scorned  me  with  her  haughty  eyes,  and  I, 

in  bounden  duty, 
Did  love  her — loved  her  more  for  that,  and 

Tvearied  of  my  life ! 


And  yet  'twas  sweet  to  dream  of  her,  to  think 
her  wavy  tresses 

Might  rest  some  happy,  happy  day,  like  sun- 
shine, on  my  cheek  ; 

The  idle  winds  that  fanned  my  brow  I  dreamed 
were  her  caresses, 

And  in  the  robin's  twitterings  I  heard  my 
sweetheart  speak. 


And  as  I  lay  and  thought  of  her,  her  fairy  face 
adorning 

With  lover's  fancies,  treasuring  the  slightest 
word  she'd  said, 

'Twas  Kathie  broke  upon  me  like  a  blushing 
summer  morning, 

And  a  half-blown  rosy  clover  reddened  under- 
neath her  tread ! 


104  KATIIIE   MORRIS. 

10. 

Then  I  glanced  up  at  Kathie,  and  her  eyes  were 
full  of  laughter: 

'  0,  Kathie,  Kathie  Morris,  I  am  lying  at  your 
feet; 

Bend  above  me,  say  you  love  me,  that  you'll 
love  me  ever  after, 

Or  let  me  lie  and  die  here,  in  the  fragrant  mea- 
dow-sweet !' 


And  then  I  turned  my  face  away,  and  trembled 

at  my  daring. 
For  wildly,  wildly  had  I  spoke,  with   flashing 

cheek  and  eye ; 
And  there  was  silence;  I  looked  up,  all  pallid 

and  despairing, 
For  fear  she'd  take  me  at  my  word,  and  leave 

me  there  to  die. 

12. 

The  modest  lashes  of  her  eyes  upon  her  cheeks 

were  drooping. 
Her  merciless  white  fmgers  tore  a  blushing  bud 

apart; 


KATHIE   MORRIS.  105 

Then,   quick  as   lightning,   Kathie    came,   and 

kneeUng  half  and  stooping. 
She  hid  her   bonny,   bonny  face    against   my 

beating  heart. 

13. 

0,  nestle,  nestle,  nestle  there !  the  heart  would 

give  thee  greeting ; 
Lie  thou  there,  all  trustfully,  in  trouble  and  in 

pain  ; 
This  breast  shall  shield  thee  from  the   storm 

and  bear  its  bitter  beating, 
These  arms  shall  hold  thee  tenderly  in  sunshine 

and  in  rain ! 

14. 

Old  sexton!  set  your  chimes  in  tune,  and  let 
there  be  no  snarling, 

Ring  out  a  joyous  wedding-hymn  to  all  the 
listening  air  ; 

And,  girls,  strew  roses  as  she  comes,  the  scorn- 
ful, brown-eyed  darling — 

A  princess,  by  the  wavy  gold  and  glistening 
of  her  hair  ! 


106  KATHIE    MORRIS. 

15. 

Hark !  hear  the  bells.     The  Christmas  bells  ?  0, 

no  ;  who  set  them  ringing  ? 
I  think  I  hear  our  bridal-bells,  and  I  with  joy 

am  blind ; 
I  smell  the  clover  in  the  fields,  I  hear  the  robins 

singing. 
And  the  j^etals  of  the  apple-blooms  are  ruffled 

in  the  wind ! 

16. 

Ah !  Kathie,  you've  been  true  to  me  in  fair  and 

cloudy  weather ; 
Our  Father  has  been  good  to  us  when  we've 

been  sorely  tried : 
I  pray  to  Him,  when  we  must  die,  that  wc  may 

die  together. 
And  slumber  softly  underneath  the  clover,  side 

by  side. 


107 


LAMIA. 

*  Go  on  your  "way,  and  let  me  pass. 

You  stop  a  wild  despair, 
I  would  that  I  were  turned  to  brass 
Like  that  grim  dragon  there, 

'  Which,  coucliant  by  the  postern  gate. 

In  weather  foul  or  fair, 
Looks  down  serenely  desolate, 
And  nothing  does  but  stare  ! 

*  Ah,  what's  to  me  the  burgeoned  A'ear, 

The  sad  leaf  or  the  gay  ? 
Let  Launcelot  and  Queen  Guinevere 
Their  falcons  fly  this  day. 


108 


'  Twill  be  as  ro_yal  sport,  pardie, 

As  falconers  have  tried 

At  Astolat — but  let  me  be  ! 

I  would  that  I  had  died, 

'  I  met  a  woman  in  the  glade  : 

Her  hair  was  soft  and  brown, 
And  long  bent  silken  lashes  weighed 
Her  ivory  eyelids  down. 

'  I  kissed  her  hand,  I  called  her  blest, 

I  held  her  leal  and  fair — 
She  turned  to  shadow  on  my  breast, 
And  melted  in  the  air  ! 

'  And,  lo  !  about  me,  fold  on  fold, 

A  writhing  serpent  hung — 
An  eye  of  jet,  a  skin  of  gold, 
A  garnet  for  a  tongue  ! 

'  0,  let  the  petted  falcons  fly 

Right  merry  in  the  sun ; 

But  let  me  be !  for  I  shall  die 

Before  the  year  is  done.' 


INVOCATION   TO   BLEEP.  109 


INYOCATION  TO  SLEEP. 


There  is  a  rest  for  all  things.     On  still  niglits 

There  is  a  folding  of  a  million  wings — 
The  swarming  honey-bees  in  unknown  woods, 
The  speckled  butterflies,  and  downy  broods 

In  dizzy  poplar  heights  : 
Rest  for  innumerable  nameless  things, 
Rest  for  the  creatures  underneath  the  Sea, 
And  in  the  Earth,  and  in  the  starry  Air  .  .  , 
Why  will  it  not  unburden  me  of  care  ? 
It  comes  to  meaner  things  than  my  despair. 
0  weary,  weary  night,  that  brings  no  rest  to 
me  I 

10 


110  INVOCATION    TO    SLEEP. 


Spirit  of  dreams  and  silvern  memories, 

Delicate  Sleep ! 
One  who  is  sickening  of  his  tiresome  days, 
Brings  thee  a  soul  that  he  would  have  thee 

keep 
A  captive  in  thy  mystical  domain, 
With  Puck  and  Ariel,  and  the  grotesque  train 
That  do  inhabit  slumber.     Give  his  sight 
Immortal  shapes,  and  bring  to  him  again 
His  Psyche  that  went  out  into  the  night ! 


Thou  who  dost  hold  the  priceless  keys  of  rest. 
Strew  lotus-leaves  and  poppies  on  my  breast, 

And  bear  me  to  thy  castle  in  the  land 
Touched  with  all  colors  like  a  burning  west — 
The  Castle  of  Vision,  where  the  feet  of  thought 
Wander  at  will  upon  enchanted  ground. 
Making  no  sound 
In  all  the  corridors  .... 
The  bell  sleeps  in  the  belfry — from  its  tongue 
A  drowsy  murmur  floats  into  the  air, 


INVOCATION    TO    SLEEP.  l.U 

Like  thistle-down.     Slumber  is  everywhere. 
The  rook's  asleep,  and,  in  its  dreaming,  caws ; 
And   silence   mopes   where  nightingales  have 

sung; 
The  Sirens  lie  in  grottos  cool  and  deep  : 

The  Naiads  in  the  streams : 
But  I,  in  chilling  twilight,  stand  and  wait 
On  the  portcullis,  at  thy  castle  gate, 
Yearning  to  see  the  golden  door  of  dreams 
Turn  on  its  noiseless  hinges,  delicate  Sleep  ! 


112  SEADRIFT. 


8EADEIFT. 

See  where  she  stands,  on  the  wet  sea-sands 

Looking  across  the  water : 
Wild  is  the  night,  but  wilder  still 

The  face  of  the  fisher's  daughter ! 


What  does  she  there,  in  the  lightning's  glare, 
What  does  she  there,  I  wonder  ? 

What  dread  demon  drags  her  forth 
In  the  night  and  wind  and  thunder  ? 


Is  it  the  ghost  that  haunts  this  coast  ? — 
The  cruel  waves  mount  higher, 

And  the  beacon  pierces  the  stormy  dark 
With  its  javelin  of  fire  ! 


SEADRIFT.  113 

Beyond  the  light  of  the  beacon  bright 

A  merchantman  is  tacking 
The  hoarse  wind  whisthng  through  the  shrouds, 

And  the  brittle  topmasts  cracking. 

The  sea  it  moans  over  dead  men's  bones, 

The  sea  it  foams  in  anger ; 
The  curlews  swoop  through  the  resonant  air 

With  a  warning  cry  of  danger. 

The  star-fish  clings  to  the  sea-weed's  rings 

In  a  vague,  dumb  sense  of  peril  ; 
And  the  spray,  with  its  phantom-fingers,  grasps 

At  the  mullein  dry  and  sterile. 

0,  who  is  she  that  stands  by  the  sea, 
In  the  lightning's  glare,  undaunted  ? — 

Seems  this  now  like  the  coast  of  hell 
By  one  white  spirit  haunted  ! 

The  night  drags  by ;  and  the  breakers  die 

Along  the  ragged  ledges ; 
The  robin  stirs  in  its  drenched  nest, 

The  hawthorn  blooms  on  the  hedges. 
10* 


114  SEADRIFT. 

In  shimmering  lines,  through  the  sullen  pines, 

The  stealthy  morn  advances ; 
And  the  heavy  sea-fog  straggles  back 

Before  those  bristling  lances  ! 

Still  she  stands  on  the  wet  sea-sands ; 

The  morning  breaks  above  her, 
And  the   corpse   of   a  sailor   gleams  on  the 
rocks — 

What  if  it  were  her  lover  ? 


INFELICISSIMUS.  115 


INFELICISSIMUS. 
I. 


I  "WALKED  witli  him  one  melancholy  night 
Down  by  the  sea,  along  the  lonely  strands, 
While  in  the  dreary  heaven  the  Northern  Light 
Beckoned  with  flaming  hands — 


II. 


Beckoned  and  vanished,  like  a  woeful  ghost 
That  fain  would  lure  us  to  some  dismal  wood, 
And  tell  us  tales  of  ships  that  have  been  lost. 
Of  violence  and  blood. 


ni. 


And  where  yon  rock  o'erhangs  the  angry  froth, 
We  sat  together  as  the  night  went  by. 
Watching  the  great  star-bear  that  in  the  North 
Guarded  the  midnight  sky. 


116  INFELICISSIMUS. 

IV. 

And  while  the  moonhght  wrought  its  miracles, 
Drenching  the  world  with  silent  silver  rain, 
He  spoke  of  life  and  its  tumultuous  ills ; 
He  told  me  of  his  pain. 

V. 

He  said  his  soul  was  like  the  troubled  sea 
With  autumn  brooding  over  it :  and  then 
Spoke  of  his  hopes,  of  what  he  yearned  to  be. 
And  what  he  might  have  been. 

VI, 

'  I  hope,'  he  said,  '  I  hope  for  peace  at  last, 
I  only  ask  for  peace  I     My  god  is  Ease  ! 
Day  after  day  some  rude  Iconoclast 
Breaks  all  my  images. 

VII. 

*  There  is  a  better  life  than  I  have  known — 
A  surer,  purer,  larger  life  than  this : 
There  is  another,  a  celestial  zone, 
Where  I  shall  know  of  bliss.' 


INFELICISSIMUS.  IIT 

Ylir. 

So,  close  his  eyes,  and  cross  bis  helpless  hands, 
And  lay  the  year's  last  flowers  upon  his  breast ; 
For  time   and  death  have  stayed  the  golden 

sands 
That  ran  with  such  unrest ! 


You  weep  :  I  smile  :  I  know  that  he  is  dead, 
So  is  his  passion,  and  'tis  better  so  ! 
Take  him,  0  Earth,  and  round  his  lovely  head 
Let  countless  roses  blow  ! 


118  THE    QUEENS   RIDE. 


THE  QUEEN'S  EIDE. 
An  Invitation, 

'Tis  that  fair  time  of  year, 

Lady  mine, 
When  stately  Guinevere, 
In  her  sea-green  robe  and  hood. 
Went  a-riding  through  the  wood, 

Lady  mine. 

And  as  the  Queen  did  ride, 

Lady  mine. 
Sir  Launcelot  at  her  side 
Laughed  and  chatted,  bending  over, 
Half  her  friend  and  all  her  lover  1 

Lady  mine. 


THE    QUEEN  S    RIDE.  11.9 

And  as  they  rode  along, 

Lady  mine, 
The  throstle  gave  them  song. 
And  the  buds  peeped  through  the  grassi 
To  see  youth  and  beauty  pass  ! 

Lady  mme. 


And  on,  through  deathless  time. 

Lady  mine, 
These  lovers  in  their  prime, 
(Two  fairy  ghosts  together  !) 
Ride,  Tvith  sea-green  robe,  and  feather! 

Lady  mine. 

And  so  "we  two  will  ride, 

Lady  mine. 
At  your  pleasure,  side  by  side, 
Laugh  and  chat ;  I  bending  over. 
Half  your  friend  and  all  your  lover ! 

Lady  mine. 


But  if  you  like  not  this, 
Lady  mine, 


120  THE    QUEENS    RIDE. 

And  take  my  love  amiss, 
Then  I'll  ride  unto  the  end, 
Half  your  lover,  all  your  friend  ! 
Lady  mine. 

So,  come  which  way  you  will. 

Lady  mine. 
Vale,  upland,  plain  and  hill 
Wait  your  coming.     For  one  day 
Loose  the  bridle,  and  away ! 

Lady  mine. 


121 


LANDER. 


Close  his  bleak  eyes — they  shall  no  more 

Flash  victory  where  the  cannon  roar ; 

And  lay  the  battered  sabre  at  his  side, 

(His  to  the  last,  for  so  he  would  have  died !) 

Though  he  no  more  may  pluck  from  out  its 

sheath 
The  sinewy  hghtning  that  dealt  traitors  death. 
Lead  the  worn  war-horse  by  the  plumed  bier — 
Even  his  horse,  now  he  is  dead,  is  dear  ! 


Take  him,  New  England,  now  his  work  is  done. 

He  fought  the  Good  Fight  vahantly — and  won. 

11 


122  LANDER. 

Speak  of  his  daring.     This  man  held  his  blood 
Cheaper  than  water  for  the  Nation's  good. 
Rich    Mountain,    Fairfax,    Romney — he    was 

there. 
Speak  of  him  gently,  of  his  mien,  his  air ; 
How  true  he  was,  how  his  strong  heart  could 

bend 
With  sorrow,  hke  a  woman's,  for  a  friend  : 
Intolerant  of  every  mean  desire  ; 
Ice  where  he  liked  not ;  where  he  loved,  all 
fire. 

in. 

Take  him.  New  England,  gently.  Other  days, 
Peaceful  and  prosperous,  shall  give  him  praise. 
How  will  our  children's  children  breathe  his 

name. 
Bright  on  the  shadowy  muster-roll  of  fame  I 
Take  him.  New  England,  gently ;  you  can  fold 
No  purer  patriot  in  your  soft  brown  mould. 

So,  on  New  England's  bosom,  let  him  he. 
Sleeping  awhile — as  if  the  Good  could  die  I 


i-v. 
THK   SET   OF   TURQUOISE. 


THE    SET    OF    TURQUOISE. 

A  DEAMATIC  SKETCH. 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS. 


Count  of  Lara,    A  poor  nohkman. 
Beatrice,  .     .     .   His  loife. 
Miriam, 
Jacii 

A  Page,  for  the  occasion. 
The  scene  is  laid  in  the  vicinity  of  Mantua. 


'       >•    .     .   Her  dressing-maids. 

[NTA,        j 


Scene  I, — Count  of  Lara's  villa.  A  balcony 
overlooking  the  garden.  Moonlight.  Lara 
and  Beatrice. 


LARA. 

The  third  moon  of  our  marriage,  Beatrice  ! 
11* 


It  hangs  in  the  still  twilight,  large  and  full, 
Like  a  ripe  orange. 


THE   SET   OF   TURQUOISE. 
BEATRICE. 


Like  an  orange  ?  yes, 

But  not  so  red,  Count.     Then  it  has  no  stem, 

And  ripened  out  of  nothing. 


Critical ! 

Make  thou  a  neater  poesy  for  the  moon. 

BEATRICE. 

ISTow,  as  't  is  hidden  by  those  drifts  of  cloud, 
With  one  thin  edge  just  glimmering  thi'ough 

the  dark, 
'Tis  like  some  strange,  rich  jewel  of  the  east, 
In  the  cleft  side  of  a  mountain. 


Not  unlike  1 


BEATRICE. 


And  that  reminds  me — speaking  of  jewels — 

love. 
There  is  a  set  of  turquoise  at  Malan's, 


THE    SET    OF    TURQUOISE.  127 

Ear-drops  and  bracelets  and  a  necklace — ah  ! 
It"  they  were  mine  ! 

LARA, 

And  so  they  should  be,  dear, 
Were  I  Aladdin,  and  had  slaves  o'  the  lamp 
To  fetch  me  ingots.     Why,  then,  Beatrice, 
All  Persia's  turquoise-quarries  should  be  yours. 
Although  your  hand  is  heavy  now  with  gems 
That  tear  my  Hps  when  I  would  kiss  its  white- 
ness. 
Oh  !  so  you  pout !     Why  make  that  full-blown 

rose 
Into  a  bud  again  ? 

BEATRICE. 

You  love  me  not. 

LARA. 

A  coquette's  song. 

BEATRICE. 

I  sing  it. 


LARA. 

A  poor  song. 


THE    SET    OF    TURQUOISE. 


You  love  me  not,  or  love  me  over-much, 
Which  makes  you  jealous  of  the  gems  I  wear  I 
You  do  not  deck  me  as  becomes  our  state, 
For  fear  my  grandeur  should  besiege  the  eyes 
Of  Monte,  Clari,  Marcus,  and  the  rest — 
A  precious  set !     You're  jealous,  Sir ! 


Not  I. 

I  love  you. 


LARA. 


BEATRICE. 


Why,  that  is  as  easy  said 

As  any   three   short   words ;    takes   no   more 

breath 
To  say,  ^  I  hate  you.'     What,  Sir,  have  I  lived 
Three    times   four  weeks   your  wedded   loyal 

wife, 
And  do  not  know  your  follies  ?     I  will  wager 
(If  I  could  trap  his  countship  into  this  !)  [Aside.] 
The  rarest  kisses  I  know  how  to  give 
Against  the  turquoise,  that  within  a  month 
You'll  grow  so  jealous — and  without  a  cause, 


THE    SET    OF   TURQUOISE.  120 

Or  with  a  reason  thin  as  window-glass — 
That  you  will  ache  to  kill  me  ! 

LARA. 

Will  you  so  ? 

And  I — let  us  clasp  haads  and  kiss  on  it. 

BEATRICE. 

Clasp  hands,  Sir  Trustful ;  but  not  kiss — nay, 

nay! 
I  will  not  pay  my  forfeit  till  I  lose. 

LARA. 

And  I'll  not  lose  the  forfeit. 

BEATRICE. 

We  shall  see. 

BEATRICE  enters  the  house  singing : 

TJiere  was  an  old  earl  and  he  lued  a  young  wife, 

Heigh  ho,  the  bonny. 
And  he  luas  as  jealous  as  Death  is  of  Life, 

Heigh  ho,  the  nonny  ! 


ISO  THE   SET    OF   TURQUOISE. 

Kings  saw  her,  and  sighed ; 

And  wan  lovet^s  died. 
But  no  one  could  win  the  bright  honey 
That  lay  on  the  lips  of  the  bonny 

Young  bride, 
Until  Cupid,  the  rover,  a-hearting  luoidd  go, 

Then — heigh  ho  !  [Exit.] 


She  has  as  many  fancies  as  the  wind 

Which   now,    Hke   slumber,    hes   'mong   spicy 

isles, 
Then  suddenly  blows  white  furrows  in  the  sea ! 
Lovely  and  dangerous  is  my  leopardess. 
To-day,  low-lying  at  my  feet;  to-morrow, 
AVith  great  eyes  flashing,  threatening   doleful 

death — 
With  strokes  like  velvet !     She's  no  common 

clay. 
But  fire  and  dew  and  marble.     I'll  not  throAv 
So  rare  a  wonder  in  the  lap  o'  the  world ! 
Jealous  ?     I  am  not  jealous — though  they  say 
Some  sorts  of  love  breed  jealousy.     And  yet, 
I  would  I  had  not  wagered ;  it  implies 


THE    SET    OF    TURQUOISE.  V-A 

Doubt.      If  I    doubted?      Pshaw!      I'll   walk 

awhile 
And  let  the  cool  air  fan  me.  [Paces  ike  balcony.] 
'Twas  not  wise. 

'Tis  only  Folly  with  its  cap  and  bells 
Can  jest  with  sad  things.     She  seemed  earnest, 

too. 
What  if,  to  pique  me,  she  should  over-step 
The  pale  of  modesty,  and  give  bold  eyes 
(I  could  not  bear  that,  nay,  not  even  that !) 
To  Marc  or  Claudiau  ?     Why,  such  things  have 

been 
And   no    sin  dreamed   of.     I   will  watch  her 

close. 
There,  now,  I  wrong  her.     She  is  wild  enough, 
Playing  the  empress  in  her  honeymoons : 
But  untamed  falcons  will  not  wear  the  hood 
Nor  sit  on  the  wrist,  at  bidding.     Yet  if  she, 
To  win  the  turquoise  of  me,  if  she  should — 
0!    cursed   jewels!    would    that    they  were 

hung 
About    the    ghstening    neck    of    some    mer- 

maiden 
A  thousand  fathoms  underneath  the  sea ! 


182  THE    SET    OF    TURQUOISE. 


Scene  II. — A  garden:  the  villa  seen  in  the  bacJi- 
ground.  LaPwA  stretched  on  the  grass  ivith  a 
copy  of  Boccaccio's  ''Decameron^  in  his  hand. 
Sunset. 

LARA.         [Closing  the  book.] 

A  book  for  sunset — if  for  any  time. 

Most  spicy  tongues  and  riant  wit  had  they, 

The  merry  Ladies  of  Boccaccio ! 

What  tales  they  told  of  love-in-idleness, 

(Love  old  as  earth,  and  yet  forever  new,) 

Of  monks   who    worshipped    Venus — not    in 

vain; 
Of  unsuspecting  husbands,  and  gay  dames 
Who    held    their   vows    but   lightly — by   my 

faith, 
Too  much  of  the  latter!     'Tis  a   sweet,   bad 

book, 
I  would  not  have  my  sister  or  my  wife 
Caught  by  its  cunning.     In  its  mellow  words 
Sin  is  so  draped  with  beauty,  speaks  so  fair, 
That  naught  seems  wrong  but  Virtue  I    Yet.  for 

all. 


THE    SET    OF    TURQUOISE.  133 

It  is  a  sprightly  volume,  and  kills  care. 
I  need  such  sweet  physicians.     I  have  grown 
Sick  in  the  mind — at  swords'  points  with  my- 
self. 
I  am  mine  own  worst  enemy. 
And  wherefore  ?  wherefore  ?    Beatrice  is  kind, 
Less  fanciful,  and  loves  me,  I  would  swear. 
Albeit  she  will  not  kiss  me  till  the  month 
Which    ends    our    foolish    wager    shall    have 

passed, 
A  hundred  years,  and  not  a  single  kiss 
To   spice   the   time   with!     What   a    freakish 
dame ! 

A  Page  crosses  the  garden. 

That  page  again!     'Tis  twice  within  the  week 
The  supple-waisted,  pretty-ankled  knave 
Has  crossed  my  garden  at  this  self-same  hour, 
Trolling  a  canzonetta  with  an  air 
As  if  he  owned  the  villa.     Why,  the  fop ! 
He  might  have  doffed  his  bonnet  as  he  passed. 
I'll  teach  him  better  if  he  comes  again. 
What  does  he  at  the  villa  ?     0  !  perchance 
He  comes  in  the  evening  when  his  master's 
out, 

12 


184  THE    SET    OF    TURQUOISE. 

To  lisp  soft  romance  in  the  ready  ear 
Of  Beatrice's  dressing-maid;  but  then 
She  has  one  lover.     Now  I  think  she's  two : 
This  gaudy  popinjay  would  make  the  third, 
And  that's  too  many  for  an  honest  girl ! 
If  he's  not  Miriam's,  he's  Jacinta's,  then  ? 
I'll  ask  the  Countess — no,  I'll  not  do  that ; 
She'd  laugh  at  me,  and  vow  by  the  Madonna 
This  varlet  was  some  noble  in  disguise, 
Seeking  he?^  favor.     Then  I'd  let  the  light 
Of  heaven  through  his  doublet — I  would — yes, 
That  is,  I  would,  were  I  a  jealous  man : 
But  then  I'm  not.     So  he  may  come  and  go 
To  Miriam — or  the  devil !     I'll  not  care. 
I  would  not  build  around  my  lemon-trees, 
(Though  every  lemon  were  a  sphere  of  gold,) 
A  lattice-fence,  for  fear  the  very  birds 
Should   sing,    You^re  jealous,   you  are  Jealous, 
Sir  I 


THE    SET    OF    TURQUOISE. 


135 


Scene  III. — A  wooded  road  near  the  villa.  The 
r/arden-gafe  seen  on  the  left.  Lara  leaning 
against  a  tree.     Evening. 

LARA. 

Sorrow  itself  is  not  so  hard  to  bear 
As  the  thought  of  sorrow  coming.     Airy  ghosts, 
That  work  no  mischief,  terrify  us  more 
Than  men  in  steel  with  bloody  purposes. 
Death    is    not    dreadful;     'tis    the    dread    of 

death — 
We  die  whene'er  we  think  of  it ! 

I'll  not 
Be  cozened  longer.     When  the  page  comes  out 
I'll   stop   him,    question   him,    and  know   the 

truth. 
I  cannot  sit  in  the  garden  of  a  night 
But  he  glides  by  me  in  his  jaunty  dress. 
Like  a  fantastic  phantom ! — never  looks 
To  the  right  nor  left,  but  passes  gayly  on, 
As  if  I  were  a  statue.     Soft,  he  comes, 
I'll  make   him   speak,    or  kill  him;    then,  in- 
deed. 


186  THE    SET    OF    TURQUOISE. 

It  were  unreasonable  to  ask  it.     Soh ! 

I'll  speak  him  gently  at  the  first,  and  then — 

The  Page  enters  hy  a  gate  in  the  villa-garden^  and 
tuallcs  carelesdij  past  the  Count. 

Ho !  pretty  page,  who  owns  you  ? 

PAGE. 

No  one  now. 

Once  Signer  Juan,  but  I  am  his  no  more. 

LARA. 

What,  then,  you  stole  from  him  ? 

PAGE. 

0!  no,  Sir,  no. 

He  had  so  many  intrigues  on  his  hands. 
There  was  no  sleep  for  me  nor  night  nor  day. 
Such  carrying  of  love-favors  and  pink  notes  ! 
He's  gone  abroad  now,  to  break  other  hearts 
And  so  I  left  him. 

LARA. 

A  frank  knave. 


THE    SET    OF    TURQUOISE.  187 

PAGE. 

To-night 

I've  done  his  latest  bidding — 

LARA, 

As  you  should — 

PAGE. 

A  duty  wed  with  pleasure — 'twas  to  take 
A  message  to  a  countess  all  forlorn, 
In  yonder  villa. 

LARA,  [Aside.] 

Why,  the  devil !  that's  mine ! 

A  message  to  a  countess  all  forlorn  ? 

[To  the  Paje.]     In  yonder  villa  ? 


Ay,  Sir.     You  can  see 

The  portico  among  the  mulberries, 

Just  to  the  left,  there. 

LARA. 

Ay,  I  see,  I  see. 

A  pretty  villa.     And  the  lady's  name  ? 
12* 


133  THE   SET    OF   TURQUOISE. 

PAGE. 

The  lady's  name,  sir  ? 

LARA. 

Ay,  the  lady's  name. 

PAGE. 

0 !  that's  a  secret  which  I  cannot  tell. 

LARA.     [CatcJiing  him  hy  the  throat.] 

No?  but   you   shall,    though,    or   I'll  strangle 

you! 
In  my  strong  hands  your  slender  neck  would 

snap 
Like  a  fragile  pipe-stem. 

PAGE. 

You  are  choking  me ! 
0  !  loose  your  grasp,  Sir ! 

LARA. 

Then  the  name  I  the  name  1 


THE    SET    OF    TURQUOISE.  18S 

PAGE. 

Countess  of  Lara. 

LARA. 

Xot  her  dressing-maid  ? 

PAGE. 

No,  no,  I  said  the  mistress,  not  the  maid. 


And  then  you  Hed.     I  never  saw  two  eyes 
So  wide  and  frank,  but  they'd  a  phant  tongue 
To  shape  a  he  for  them.     Say  you  are  false  ! 
Tell  me  you  lie,  and  I  will  make  you  rich, 
I'll  stuff  your  cap  with  ducats  twice  a  year. 


[Smilmg.] 


Well,  then— I  lie. 


LARA. 


Ay,  now  you  lie,  indeed ! 

I  see  it  in  the  cunning  of  your  eyes ; 

"Nio-ht  cannot  hide  the  Satan  leering  there. 


140  THE    SET    OF    TURQUOISE. 

Only  a  little  lingering  fear  of  heaven 
Holds  me  from  dirking  you  between  the  ribs ! 
[Hides  his  face  in  his  hands.] 

PAGE.  [Aside.] 

Faith,  then,  I  would  I  were  well  out  of  this. 

LARA.         [Abstractedly.] 
Such  thin  divinity  1     So  foul,  so  fair ! 

PAGE. 

What  would  you  have?     I  will  say  nothing, 
then. 

LARA. 

Say  everything,  and  end  it !     Here  is  gold. 
You  brought  a  billet  to  the  Countess — well  ? 
What  said  the  billet  ? 


Take  away  your  hand, 
And,  by  St.  Mary,  I  will  toll  you  all. 
There,  now,  I  breathe.    You  will  not  harm  me, 
Sir? 


TilK    SET    OF    TURQUOISE.  141 

Stand  six  yards  off,  or  I  will  not  a  word. 

It  seems  the  Countess  promised  Signor  Juau 

A  set  of  turquoise — 

LARA.  {Startim 

Turquoise  ?     Ha !  that's  well. 

PAGE. 

Just  so — wherewith  my  master  was  to  pay 
Some  gaming  debts ;  but  yester-night  the  cards 
Tumbled  a  golden  mountain  at  his  feet ; 
And  ere  he  sailed,  this  morning,  Signor  Juan 
Grave  me  a  perfumed,  amber-tinted  note, 
For  Countess  Lara,  which,  with  some  adieus, 
Craved  her  remembrance  morning,  noon,  and 

night; 
Her  prayers  while  gone,  her  smiles  when  he 

returned ; 
Then  told  his  sudden  fortune  with  the  cards, 
And  bade  her  keep  the  jewels.     That  is  all. 


All  ?    Is  that  all  ?    'T  has  only  cracked  my  heart  I 
A  heart,  I  know,  of  little,  little  worth — 


142  THE    SET    OF    TURQUOISE. 

An  ill-cut  ruby,  scarred  and  scratched  before, 
But  now  quite  broken  !    I  have  no  heart,  then  : 
Men  should  not  have,  when  they  are  "wronged 

like  this. 
Out  of  my  sight,  thou  demon  of  bad  news! 

0  sip  thy  wine  complacently  to-night, 
Lie  with  thy  mistress  in  a  pleasant  sleep, 

For   thou    hast  done   thy  master   (that's    the 

Devil !) 
This  day  a  goodly  service :  thou  hast  sown 
The  seeds  of  lightning  that  shall  scathe    and 

kill!  [Exit'] 

PAGE.     [Loonhig  after  him.'] 

1  did  not  think  't  would  work  on  him  like  that. 
How  pale  he  grew  !     Alack !  I  fear  some  ill 
Will  come  of  this.     I'll  to  the  Countess  now. 
And   warn    her    of    his   madness.      Faith,     lie 

foamed 
I'  the  mouth  like  Guido  whom  they  hung  last 

week 
(God  rest  him  !)  in  the  jail  at  Mantua, 
For  killing  poor  Battista.     Crime  for  crime, 

[Exit] 


THE   SET    OF   TURQUOISE. 


Scene  IV. — Beatrice's  chamher.  A  Venetian 
screen  on  the  right.  As  the  scene  opens,  Ja- 
ciNTA  places  lamp)S  on  a  standish,  and  retires 
to  the  hack  of  the  stage.  Beatrice  sits  on  a 
fauteuil  in  the  attitude  of  listening. 

BEATRICE, 

Hist !  that's  his  step.     Jacinta,  place  the  hghts 
Farther  away  from  me,  and  get  thee  gone. 

[Exit  Jacinta.] 
And  Miriam,  child,  keep  you  behind  the  screen, 
Breathing  no  louder  than  a  lily  does ; 
For  if  you  stir  or  laugh  't  will  ruin  all. 

MIRIAM.    [Behind  the  screen.'] 
Laugh  !     I  am  faint  with  terror. 

BEATRICE. 

Then  be  stiU. 

Move  not  for  worlds  until  I  touch  the  bell, 
Then  do  the  thing  I  told  you.     Hush  !  his  step 
Sounds  in  the  corridor,  and  I'm  asleep ! ' 


144  TnE    SET    OF    TURQUOISE. 

Lara  enters  with  his  dress  in  disorder.  lie  ap- 
proaches tuithin  a  few  yards  of  Beatrice, 
pauses^  and  looks  at  her. 

LARA. 

Asleep ! — and  Guilt  can  slumber !     Guilt  can  lie 
Down-lidded    and    soft-breathed,    like    Inno- 
cence ! 
Hath  dreams  as  sweet  as  childhood's — who  can 

tell?— 
And  paradisal  prophecies  in  sleep, 
Its  foul  heart  keeping  measure,  as  it  were, 
To  the  silver  music  of  a  mandoline ! 
Were  I  an  artist,  and  did  wish  to  paint 
A  devil  to  perfection,  I'd  not  limn 
A  horned  monster,  with  a  leprous  skin, 
Eed-hot  from  Pandemonium — not  I. 
But  with  my  dclicatest  tints,  I'd  paint 
A  Woman  in  the  glamour  of  her  youth, 
All  garmented  with  loveliness  and  mystery! 
She  should  be  sleeping  in  a  room  like  this. 
With  Angelos  and  Titians  on  the  walls, 
The  grand  old  masters  staring  grandly  down, 
Draped  round  with  folds  of  damask ;  in  the  al- 
coves, 


THE    SET    OF    TURQUOISE.  145 

Statues  of  Bacchus  and  Endymion, 
And  Venus's  blind  love-child:  a  globed  lamp 
Gilding  the  heavy  darkness,  while  the  odors 
Of  myriad  hyacinths  should  seem  to  break 
Upon  her  ivory  bosom  as  she  slept ; 
And  by  her  side,  (as  I  by  Beatrice.) 
Her  injured  lord  should  stand  and  look  at  her  ! 

[Pauses.'] 

How  fair  she  is !     Her  beauty  glides  between 
Me  and  my  purpose,  like  a  pleading  angel. 
Beauty — alack  I  'tis  that  which  wrecks  us  all ; 
'Tis  that  we  live  for,  die  for,  and  are  damned. 
A  pretty  ankle  and  a  laughing  lip — 
They  cost  us  Eden  when  the  world  was  new, 
They  cheat  us  out  of  heaven  every  day  ! 
To-night  they  win  another  Soul  for  you, 
Master  of  Darkness !     .     .      [Beatrice  sigJis.] 

Her  dream's  broke,  like  a  bubble,  in  a  sigh. 

She'll  waken  soon,  and  that — that  must  not  be ! 

I  could  not  kill  her  if  she  looked  at  me. 

I  loved  her,  loved  her,  by  the  Saints,  I  did — 

I  trust  she  prayed  before  she  fell  asleep  I 

[  Unsheathes  a  dagger. 
13 


146  TUE    SET    OF    TURQUOISE. 

Beatrice.     [Springhij  up.] 

So>  you  are  come — your  dagger  in  your  hand  ? 
Your  lips  compressed  and  blanched,  and  your 

hair 
Tumbled  wildly  all  about  your  eyes, 
Like  a  river-god's  ?    0  !  love,  you  frighten  rae  ! 
And  you  are  trembling.     Tell   me   what   this 

means. 

LARA. 

Oh !  nothing,  nothing — I  did  think  to  write 
A  note  to  Juan,  to  Signor  Juan,  my  friend, 
(Your  cousin  and  my  honorable  friend ;) 
But  finding  neither  ink  nor  paper  here, 
I  thought  to  scratch  it  with  my  dagger's  point 
Upon  your  bosom.  Madam !     That  is  all. 

BEATRICE. 

You've  lost  your  senses! 

LARA. 

Madam,  no:  I've  found  'em! 


THE    SET    OF    TURQUOISE.  147 

BEATRICE. 

Then  lose  them  quickly,  and  be  what  you  were. 

LARA. 

I  was  a  fool,  a  dupe — a  happy  dupe. 

You  should  have  kept  me  in  my  ignorance ; 

For   wisdom   makes   us   wretched,    king    and 

clown. 
Countess  of  Lara,  you  are  false  to  me ! 

BEATRICE. 

Now,  by  the  Saints — 

LARA. 

Now,  by  the  Saints,  you  are ! 

BEATRICE. 

Upon  my  honor — 


On  your  honor  ?  fye ! 

Swear  by  the  ocean's  feathery  froth,  for  that 

Is  not  so  light  a  substance. 


148  THE    SET    OF    TURQUOISE. 

BEATRICE. 

Hear  me,  love ! 

LARA. 

Lie  to  that  marble  lo !     I  am  sick 
To  the  heart  with  lying. 

BEATRICE. 

You've  the  ear-ache,  Sir, 
Got  with  too  much  believing. 

LARA. 

Beatrice, 

I  came  to  kill  you. 

BEATRICE. 

Kiss  me,  Count,  you  mean ! 

LARA.     {^Approaching  /jcr.j 
If  killing  you  be  kissing  you,  why  yes. 

BEATRICE. 

Ho  I  come  not  near  me  with  such  threatening 
looks, 


THE   SET   OF   TURQUOISE.  149 

Or  I'll  call  Miriam  and  Jacinta,  Sir, 

And  rouse  the  villa :  't  were  a  pretty,  play 

To  act  before  our  servants ! 

LARA. 

Call  your  maids ! 

I'll  kill  them,  too,  and  claim  from  Royalty 

A  golden  medal  and  a  new  escutcheon. 

For  slaying  three  she-dragons — but  you  first ! 

BEATRICE. 

Stand  back  there,    if  you  love  me,  or  have 
loved  I 

As  Lara  advances,  Beatrice  retreats  to  the  table 
and  nngs  a  small  hand-bell.  Miriam,  in  the 
dress  of  a  page,  enters  from  behind  the  screen^ 
and  steps  between  them. 

MIRIAM. 

What  would  my  master,  Signer  Juan,  say — 

LARA.        [Starting  hack.] 

The  Page  ?  now,  curse  him ! — What  ?  no  I  Mi- 
riam? 

13* 


150  THE    SET    OF   TURQUOISE. 

Hold  !  'twas  at  twilight,  in  tlie  villa-garden, 
At  dusk,  too,  on  the  road  to  Mantua ; 
But  here  the  light  falls  on  you,  man  or  maid ! 
Stop  now ;  my  brain's  bewildered.     Stand  you 

there. 
And    let    me     touch     you    with    incredulous 

hands ! 
Wait  till  I  come,  nor  vanish  like  a  ghost. 
If  this  be  Juan's  page,  why,  where  is  Miriam  ? 
If  this  be  Miriam,  where's — by  all  the  Saints, 
I  have  been  tricked ! 

MIRIAM.         [Laughing.] 
By  two  Saints,  with  your  leave ! 

LARA, 

The  happiest  fool  in  Italy,  for  my  age  1 
And  all  the  damning  tales  you  fed  me  with, 
You    Sprite    of   Twilight,    Imp    of    the    old 
Moon  I — 

-♦ 

MiiuAM.  [Bovnng.] 

Were  arrant  lies  as  ever  woman  told; 


THE   SET   OF   TURQUOISE.  151 

And  though  not  mine,  I  claim  the  price  for 

them — 
This  cap  stuffed  full  of  ducats  twice  a  year  I 


A  trap  I  a  trap  that  only  caught  a  fool ! 

So  thin  a  plot,  I  might  have  seen  through  it. 

I've  lost  my  reason  ! 


And  your  ducats ! 

BEATRICE. 

And 

A  certain  set  of  turquoise  at  Malan's  I 

LARA.     [  Catching  Beatrice  in  his  arms.] 

I  care  not,  child,  so  that  I  have  not  lost 
The  love  I  held  so  jealously.     And  you — 
You  do  forgive  me  ?     Say  it  with  your  eyes. 
Right  kindly  said !     Now,  mark  me,  Beatrice  : 
If  ever  man  or  woman,  ghoul  or  fairy, 
Breathes    aught    against    your    worthiness — 

although 
The  very  angels  from  the  clouds  drop  down 


152  THE   SET    OF   TURQUOISE. 

To  sign  the  charge  of  perfidy — I  swear, 
Upon  my  honor — 

BEATRICE. 

Nay,  be  careful  there ! 

Swear  by  the  ocean's  feathery  froth — 

LARA. 

I  swear, 

By  heaven  and  all  the  Seraphim — 

BEATRICE.  [Placing  her  hand  on  his  mouth,'\ 
I  pray  you  I 

LARA. 

I  swear — if  ever  I  catch  Miriam 

In  pointed  doublet  and  silk  hose  again, 

I'U— 

BEATRICE. 

What? 

LARA. 

Make  love  to  her,  by  all  that's  true  I 


THE   SET   OF   TURQUOISE,  153 

BEATRICE. 

0  wisdom,  wisdom !  just  two  hours  too  late  I 
You  should  have  thought  of  that  before,  my 
love. 

LARA. 

It 's  not  too  late ! 

BEATRICE.  [To  MiRIAM.] 

To  bed,  you  dangerous  page  ! 

The  Count  shall  pay  the  ducats.     [Mcit  Miriam.] 

LARA. 

And  to-morrow 

I'll  clasp  a  manacle  of  blue  and  gold 

On  those  white  wrists.     Now,  Beatrice,  come 

here, 
And  let  me  kiss  both  eyes  for  you ! 


164  BARBARA. 


BAEBARA. 

[The  Duke  speaks.} 

I. 

Barbara  has  a  falcon's  eye, 

And  a  soft  white  hand  has  Barbara ; 
Beware — for  to  make  you  wish  to  die, 
To  make  you  as  pale  as  the  moon  or  I, 

Is  a  pet  trick  with  Barbara  ! 

Merrily  bloweth  the  summer  wind, 

But  cold  and  cruel  is  Barbara ! 
And  I,  a  Duke,  stand  here  like  a  hind. 
Too  happy,  i'  faith,  if  I  am  struck  blind 
By  the  sharp  look  of  Barbara ! 

Ay,  Sweetmou',  you  are  haughty  now ; 

Time  was,  time  was,  my  Barbara, 
When  I  covered  your  lips  and  brow 
And  bosom  with  kisses— faith,  'tis  snow 

That  was  all  fire  then,  Barbara! 


lOT 


I  will  speak  no  bitter  words : 
Too  much  passion  made  me  blind. 
You  were  subtle.     Let  it  go, 
For  the  sake  of  woman-kind  I 
I  will  speak  no  bitter  words. 

But,  Madam,  as  you  pass  us  by, 
Dreaming  of  your  loves  and  wine, 
Do  not  brush  your  rich  brocade 
Against  this  Httle  maid  of  mine, 
Madam,  as  you  pass  us  by. 


14 


BARBARA. 


m. 

Here  is  where  they  bring  the  dead, 
When  they  rise  from  the  river's  bed, 
Sinful  women  who  have  thrown 
Away  the  Hfe  they  would  not  own — 
Life  despised  and  trampled  down ! 

Sad  enough.     Now,  you  who  write 

Plays  that  give  the  world  delight, 

Tell  me  if  in  this  there  be 

Naught  for  your  new  tragedy  ? 

Ha !  you  start,  you  turn  from  me 

A  face  brimful  of  misery ! 

Do  you  knew  that  woman  there, 

That  icy  image  of  Despair  ? 

Have  you  heard  her  softly  speak? 

Have  you  kissed  her,  lip  and  cheek  ? 

Faith  1  you  do  not  kiss  her  now  ! 

Poor  young  mouth,  and  pale  young  brow, 

Drenched  hair,  and  glassy  eye — 

Go,  put  that  in  your  tragedy  I 


NOTES. 


Note  1,  page  95. 

WJiert  Heaven^  for  some  divine  ofence^ 
Smote  Florence  with  the  pestUeTice. 

"In  the  year  then  of  our  Lord  1348,  there  hap- 
pened at  Florence,  the  finest  city  in  all  Italy,  a  most 
terrible  plague ;  which,  whether  owing  to  the  influ- 
ence of  the  planates,  or  that  it  was  sent  from  God 
as  a  just  punishment  for  our  sins,  had  broken  out 
some  years  before  in  the  Levant,  and  after  passing 
from  place  to  place,  and  making  incredible  havoc  all 
the  way,  bad  now  reached  the  west." — Boccaccio. 

Note  2,  page  97. 

APPLEDORE. 

Appledore  is  one  of  a  cluster  of  nine  islands,  off 
the  coast  of  New  Hampshire,  known  as  the  Isles  of 
Shoals. 


160  NOTES. 

Note  3,  page  107. 

LAMIA. 

"  Philostratus,  in  his  fourth  book  de  Vita  ApoJr 
hnii,  hath  a  memorable  instance  in  this  kind,  which 
I  may  not  omit,  of  one  Menippus  Lycius,  a  young 
man  twenty-five  years  of  age,  that,  going  betwixt 
Cenchreas  and  Corintli,  met  such  a  phantasm  in  the 
habit  of  a  fair  gentlewoman,  which,  taking  him  by 
the  hand,  carried  him  home  to  her  house,  in  the  sub- 
urbs of  Corinth,  and  told  him  she  was  a  Phoenician 
by  birth,  and  if  he  would  tarry  with  her,  he  should 
hear  her  sing  and  play,  and  drink  such  wine  as  never 
any  drank,  and  no  man  should  molest  him ;  but  she, 
being  fair  and  lovely,  would  die  with  him,  that  was 
fair  and  lovely  to  behold.  The  young  man,  a  philo- 
sopher, otherwise  staid  and  discreet,  able  to  mode- 
rate his  passions,  though  not  this  of  love,  tarried 
with  her  awhile,  to  his  great  content,  and  at  last 
married  her,  to  whoso  wedding,  among  other  guests, 
came  Apolloniua ;  who,  by  some  probable  conjectures, 
found  her  out  to  be  a  serpent,  a  lamia ;  and  that  all 
her  furniture  was,  like  Tantalus'  gold,  described  by 
Homer,  no  substance,  but  mere  illusions.  When  she 
saw  herself  descried,  she  wept,  and  desired  ApoUo- 
nius  to  be  silent,  but  he  would  not  be  moved,  and 
thereupon  she,  plate,  house,  and  all  that  was  in  it, 


NOTES.  Ifil 

vanished  in  au  instant ;  many  thousands  took  notice 
of  this  fact,  for  it  was  done  in  the  midst  of  Greece." 
— Burton's  Anatomy  of  Melancholy. 

Note  4,  page  121. 

LADDER. 

Gen.  Fred.  "W.  Lander  died  at  Paw  Paw,  Virginia, 
March  the  2d,  1862,  of  wounds  received  at  Edward's 
Ferry,  October  2  2d,  1861. 


